Cries of War // FallenNinja & Cyanide

[CyanideDisaster]

For generations this war had been fought, if one would do the math with the life-spans of the elves versus the fertility rate of the humans, you'd see they were not evenly matched at all. The humans would get their victories, in small doses, usually what was known as 'gorilla attacks', a tactic elves themselves had perfected, but never knew how to evade. So day after day, week after week, year after year, the humans would throw themselves at the Elven borders in an attempt to break the supposed stale-mate. The humans could no longer spread into Elven lands, and what was around them on the other sides were inhospitable-- or at least uncomfortable. And the Elves could no longer push the Humans back, their race was growing faster than the elves had anticipated.

Elves had started creating plans that varied from their usual 'wait and see' tactics. Their Queen was getting older, and she had sworn to see the end of this war before she passed to the other side. And so, the training for a new group of fighter had began. A group of elite male warriors, the toughest of the tough. The males had been blessed by the gods, had inscriptions written into their flesh to make them stronger and given blades, shields and bows crafted to be the lightest, yet strongest they could. These warriors would train for a single human generation-- from the time they started puberty, until they were deemed adults. Among the ranks of these warriors-- Templars, in the common tongue-- was a singular female. Unlike the other females of the elven race, she was not blessed by the goddesses. Her magical abilities were lacking to say the least-- no better than a males-- and so she was deemed one.

What the Elves did not expect was for the single female to excel and later become the General of her own personal army. She led many victorious battles against the Humans, and a singular failure. The failure was not her fault, no one could ever blame her for being weak. Her men had looked up to her and prayed her name louder than some of the gods (in rumor), she was a spectacle in battle; her armor a glistening silver with blue accents running along the curves of her muscles, her face hidden behind an imposing mask, enchanted to give her further sight. Her failure was something that would be written into history, something that would embarrass the elves yet her name would not be shamed.

It had been a long battle over a stretch of land, she had been leading an assault on a farmland that had encroached on the elven territory. The long white hairs from the finest mare was being plucked in the wind some atop her helm, under the mask her lips were pursed in distaste looking into the battle field. Unlike some of the stories that had been crossed over to the Human world, she did not enjoy bloodshed, she was just very good at it. The battle was going as she had expected, the human farmers had fallen back to get the soldiers to come and protect them. The battle was being swayed into Elven favor, even as the weakest of her men took to their wounds and fell; dead. What she had not expected was the furry of arrows to take to the sky, all touched by fire, with aim she had never seen a human wield. The arrows took down many of her best men, leaving some of her offense with holes, and quickly she did what she knew she had to. She joined the fray.

The battle was written to have been epic, alone she had killed a score of men, before something hit her in a way she'd never been hit before. Somewhere off in the distance her delicate ears heard the ringing of a child's cry and no matter how many throats she slit and heads she lopped off, it would not stop. Distracted by the echo in her helm, the woman never noticed the blade that came up and entered a weak point of her armor. And she fell, and bled.

Vaguely, as blood loss started to make consciousness slip from her she could hear her second in command call for them to fall back. They could not see her eyes open from under the helm, her lips moving in slow circles, tongue lapping at suddenly dry lips. None. 'I'm going to die.' The woman thought weakly as she closed her eyes for what she believed to be the last time.

 

[FallenNinja]

The war with the Elves was one that seemed to go back as far as any man or woman could recall. None could confidently tell one who started the war, though everyone was more than willing to spout their beliefs that the Elves were no doubt to blame. Cicero had always been a curios child, growing up, always enamoured with the stories of the Elves, to a point some would call unhealthy. He always begged to hear the stories of the magic, beauty and grace, their prowess in battle and the stories of a single Elf being able to live forever. As he grew and reality shattered his picturesque image of the Elves, the War shown to him through the eyes of the wounded survivors. Tales of the Elves' ruthlessness and cold efficiency. The young boy who once thought so much of the Elves had slowly become a man, with a burning desire to fight back against the people who had caused the deaths of so many of his friends and people he knew.

When he was old enough, Cicero took to the Capital of the Kingdom, to volunteer and undertake a rigorous training regimen. For four years straight, he was drilled and pushed to the best that he could be. Fortunately for him, many of his trainers said that he was blessed with uncommon talent with the blade. He was able to quickly learn the skills that took months for the other recruits to learn, and he grew more than confident in his abilities. When he was called out to his first assignment; joining a regiment near the front lines, that were supporting a supply column, his cocksure attitude was shattered.

A small raiding party of Elves fell upon the Supply Column and his incredible 'skill', was shown to be nothing more than a child's wailing compared to the near immaculate skill of the Elven warriors that he was pitted against. Truly, as he was left wounded, but alive, he had to wondered how it was that the Elves had not simply wiped the Humans all out, with abilities like that.

Years more passed, and Cicero served in many more battles, clashing with the Elves more times, and each time surviving as best he could. He grew to be a capable leader, but too headstrong to be anything more than a Captain in charge of a few troops. Later in his life, he would go down in Human history as a great hero, sung in ballads and told of in legends around a campfire, but on this day, he was still simply a man and a captain, on patrol around a farming town that bordered the Elven lands.

When he heard the thunder of a charge, his heart froze and he knew that his luck was running low. Cicero called to his men, rallying them to the defence of the towns. He was lucky that there were several patrols in the area, and together they managed to put up a solid defence. He didn't know if it were luck, or skill, but their arrows met their marks, and the Elves were driven back. As the battlefield began to reach it's apex, he was embroiled in combat with one of the Elves. Whoever it was, they were faster, and more skilled than any he'd ever seen before. His heart was thundering in his chest, and his mind was panicking. He knew that it was only a matter of time before they'd get the best of him, only a matter of minutes, seconds, before he'd be laying on the grass, glassy-eye'd.

Then the Elf made a mistake. They turned for the briefest of moments, and Cicero's body, filled with adrenaline and panic, leaped at the chance that was presented. His blade thrust forward, chinking against the Elven armour, and his heart froze as he thought he'd missed his chance, till he felt the blade slip through a crack and pierce flesh. His opponent turned with what he could only guess was a shocked look as they fell to the ground, and he could hear somewhere behind him, cheers of victory. He staggered for a moment as the tension of his life and death battle was let loose. He looked around and saw the Elves retreating, though there were a mound of human bodies strewn across the fields.

Cicero couldn't stand, he couldn't support himself. He fell forward, onto his knees, his opponent before him on the ground. He looked down at the Elf, panting, beads of sweat dripping from his brow, and running down his muscled arms. He rested his hands on his knees, and attempted to steady his breathing. It was then that he saw that the one before him, this deadly Elf, was still breathing, their breast rising and falling, though only shallow. Cicero grit his teeth and pulled a dagger from his belt. He couldn't let one of them live. "Too much of our blood has been spilt this day." He panted through grit teeth, as he positioned himself over the Elf. He looked down at the helm upon their brow, and a savage thought entered his mind.

He reached down with his free hand, and gripped the help, pulling it from the head of the soon-to-die Elf. He wanted to look in their eyes as he killed them, for all his friends. What he saw when the helm was removed, was not what he expected. His breath caught in his throat, and thoughts that had been lost since innocent days as a boy suddenly rushed back for the briefest of moments. She was beautiful, it was a weak word to use for such a being, but that was the only thing he could think. The tension left his body, and he looked to the dagger gripped in his other hand, then back down to the woman beneath him. He couldn't do it, despite what she'd done, he couldn't bring himself to do it. He thought frantically for a moment, formulating a plan.

He slipped the dagger back into it's sheath before he leaned down to the Elf. "Your life doesn't end this day. I'm sure the King will have plenty of questions for you." He said, though the venom that filled him moments ago, was lacking in his voice. He reached down and took her arm, lifting it over his shoulder. He knew she was wounded, but he thought that if he could get her to a healer fast enough, she'd survive.

 

[CyanideDisaster]

The wounded elven maiden had the palest of skin, ivory against the crimson pool of her hair, strewn out of it's secure holding atop her head. The half-lidded eyes were the purest of blue, their pupil adapting to it's surroundings hundred's times faster than a humans. Her body was fairly small once she had fallen, perhaps the size of a boy child about to reach adolescence. But not much else could be seen of her from under the layers of thick silver toned plate, now splattered with the blood of her brothers, her enemies and herself.

Her helm echoed the noise from outside, now strangely quiet as she felt herself slowly dying. It was a horrible feeling to know you were slowly losing what blood you had left. "No..." She managed to mutter as she saw his hands reach towards her face, she was ready to die now. The pain was extreme, the feeling of helplessness and weakness finally readied her to continue into the next life. Her head lolled to the side as the helm fell from her face, she licked her dry lips as she tried to speak, but she was weak and was losing blood fast. Her cheek fell into her own blood, staining her ivory skin with her own death.

The man was speaking to her, she finally realized as she focused on his face. This human man dared speak to her, dare pity her, she tried with all the might left in her broken body to growl at him. Alas, she failed, only a pitiful mewl of pain passed her lips. Her grasp on the common language was fair enough, she could speak it fluently were she to put her mind to it. 'How do I demand he kill me?' Her mind questioned. Nothing was worse than being a prisoner. She had taught her men that death was more rewarding than allowing ones' self to be captured. If she had the strength, she would have killed herself instead. But her blade had fallen too far from her fingertips and her dagger was pressed against the mud and that was her wounded side.

A groan left her as he lifted her the way one would a comrade. Her small body weighed less that one would expect from a fully armored warrior, and she swayed as she was lifted. Even as her world slowly became black around her, she knew what she must do: Kill the human boy.

//Sorry it's short. And yes I'm not saying her name on purpose. //

 

[FallenNinja]

Cicero carried the woman across the battlefield, and he knew that there were more than a few eyes that were drawn to the sight. Outrage and anger seemed to be simmering beneath the surface as he brought the woman toward the makeshift field hospital that the villagers were forming for the wounded soldiers. As he got closer, a pair of older men, both wielding pitchforks barred his path, looks of rage upon their faces as they glanced furtively at the Elf that was hanging almost limply at his side.

"Their kin' aren' welcome 'ere!" The elder of the two said, jabbing his pitchfork toward the Elf. "Ye'll get 'em ou' o' 'ere, or we'll make sure ye'll get outta our land right smart!" The other said, the rage in his voice, perhaps from seeing his friends resonating in Cicero, who grin his teeth and glared right back at the man. The woman was dying, she probably wouldn't last much longer, and these men were getting in his way. He growled, and the two men, easily a head shorter than Cicero seemed to falter.

"This Elf is alive. She can't fight back. If we keep her alive, and take her to the King, who knows what secrets she might have. And if she doesn't, she'll probably get a right and proper execution in front of the people. Now, get a healer and get out of my way!" He said, his voice booming and drawing the attention of others. Some seemed to reel back in fear of the near-dead Elf at his side, as if it would jump up and kill them all when they least expected it. Others were glaring more now than ever.

Cicero ignored them, and carried the Elf, who even in her armour, was lighter than he expected, and placed her on a table, while an elderly woman hurried over, and stopped in her tracks when she saw what was on her table. Her eyes, wide and shocked looked up to Cicero and he nodded. He stepped back to let her ply her craft, but kept a keen eye on the Elf. He knew that she was more than a match for every man, woman and child in this field if she were well, but even injured he was sure that she'd be able to take down quite a few before they could take her down.

 

[CyanideDisaster]

The elf could feel the cold pressure of a table at her back, the edges of her armour digging painfully into her sides. She didn't wish to open her eyes, perhaps she was sleeping after a practice with her men? Perhaps they had gotten a good hit in. But as the warmth of her metal skin was peeled off of her, she realized this could not be the case. Fragile fingers took off the armour piece by piece. Slowly revealing the tiny frame of the elven woman dressed in thin leathers that looked more exotic and rich than anything the most skilled human could find. "Y'er name?" The body attached to the fragile fingers asked.

The warrior merely grunted at her, feeling exposed and small laying atop a table. Her hips and chest were bound tightly with leather straps, giving her the more masculine form that her brothers have. The old woman seemed awed by her appearance, she noted mentally as she laid there. But soon got over it once she realized she was still bleeding out. There was a long gash across her shoulder that tore both the leather straps and clothing she had worn under her plate.

No noise left the woman as a healing salve was placed into the crater of her shoulder, an action that made hardened soldiers cry for their mothers. Her nostrils flared, but she laid still. Yet still the woman felt shamed. She was useless to act, her blade long gone, her dagger-- Her dagger! The elf tried to hide the smile that seeped into her mind. She could still escape back to her home; but her eyes flicked to the male who carried her there. He was an imposing figure physically, but she knew given the chance in that battle, she could have killed him.

"Yer name elf, or ye' dun' talk our language?" The woman prodded as she stuck her fingers into the cut across her shoulder.

A small spasm crossed the elf's chest and she knew --even if it was unwillingly-- she owed the woman her name. It was custom.

"Lynniera," the warrior spoke, gritting her teeth slightly. Although she was not only a warrior, but in pain her voice was soft and smooth like a morning rain.

 

[FallenNinja]

Cicero was watching the Elf like a hawk as the healing lady removed her armour piece by piece. He'd be lying if some part of him was not hoping to find that there was nothing more beneath the armour than the Elf's bare flesh, but he wasn't surprised to see the clothes that she wore beneath them. He'd seen them before from the corpses of other Elves that they'd managed to take down in battle. He sighed as he saw the gash in her shoulder, thinking that it was he who'd wounded her so. He swallowed and wondered if she had any other scars, but kept his thoughts to himself.

The healing lady was a tough old crone, and despite her obvious trepidation about treating an Elf, she wasn't letting it get in the way of her craft, as she applied her salves, prodding the wound and then bandaging it once she'd managed to pry the same of the Elf from her. Lynniera. It was the only word that he'd heard her speak, but it seemed to speak volumes about her. Cicero tensed his jaw as he watched the woman bandage the wound, amazed that the Elf had barely flinched through the entire treatment, while around them, grown men were letting out gasps and moans for treatments far less serious than this.

"Cicero. That's my name. You'll be coming with me to the capital." He said, arms folded in front of him as he watched her, barely blinking. Only half out of caution, and the rest was because he found it difficult to look away from her, her presence demanding his attention, both as a warrior of peerless skill, and as a woman unlike any he'd ever seen before. He gave himself a mental shake and risked a glance around his surroundings, to check where his men were, and whether or not there were horses he could use to transport his new prisoner.

 

[CyanideDisaster]

Lynniera tilted her head slightly at the sound of a voice, her elongated ears not allowing her to tilt her head completely. Unlike some representations of the elves, their ears were not a foot long and elegant, they were perhaps five inches longer than a humans and pointed at the end. Lynniera's left ear in particular was missing a large chunk near the tip, leaving one of the marks of beauty among elves mangled and scarred. Her eyes darted to the others around her, now that the bleeding had stopped she felt less like she was in a bubble. From where she lay she could make out each and every face in the room, something remarkable to humans. She seemed indifferent as she gazed around, counting how many were there silently. Too many. Her chance would have to come later.

Finally the woman tilted her face up to him, with the new lighting, one would be able to see a long scar that ran from the left corner or her mouth --naturally flushes red-- to trail down between her breasts, hidden by her leathers. Other scars littered her exposed flesh, but only the one marred her face. Saying nothing to his introduction, she used her good arm to sit up. Even as the old lady pushed down against her. Lynniera growled at the woman as she dug her fingers into the wound, but brushed her off easily. She made no move to run, merely sitting up on the working table and glancing around at the wounded in the room.

"You waste time with me, they are your kin. Help them." She said, her voice direct and commanding, even as her face paled from her movements. Lynniera regarded the male, eying him up and down for a long moment. Were her arm not useless she would have told him to watch whom he spoke to. In her culture men were inferior to women because of their lack of magical talents. Not to say the men had no magic, some men could wield it efficiently and they would join the 'sisterhood', but be forced to give up their masculinity; which many would willingly.

She had questions for the male who saved her life, many questions, but instead of announcing them then and there Lynniera merely awaited for the next 'order'.