Portal - The Inquisition of Eastborne

[Black_Out]

The city of Eastborne sat alone upon the ridges of a meager fifty foot sheer cliff of rock and stone that dwindled down into the small cluster of docks that met the relatively calm waters of the bay that lapped against the land. Further out on the horizon of the waters of that bay one could view the narrow inlet that trafficked boats from the peaceful soft waves of the basin, out into the turbulent depths of the sea and oceans beyond. The pair of white washed stone towers that sat on either edge of that strategic entrance had fallen into the clutches of the Empire weeks ago. Their white banner with the singular blue star in the middle fluttered to and fro at the whim of the oceans breeze, uncontested.

Galleys of war dotted the waters of the bay near those twin towers of bleached weather worn stone. They proudly showed the Empire's flag as well, whipping about from their lofty perches. Since the distant inlets capture, not a ship had entered, except for the scouting patrolling movements of the Empire's own fleet of battle hardened vessels. Eastborne had never made their name as a coastal city of trade and might upon the open seas, their own fleet, what was left of it, barely measured up to the juggernauts of the Empire that circled like sharks further out. Their presence made one point clear, no one was getting out that way.

It was a turbulent time of uncertainty for those who had taken shelter within the horseshoe shaped walls of white stone that swept around the elevated city of Eastborne. They'd suffered assaults before, commonly involving monstrous humanoids that filtered down occasionally from the northern winter lands and the mountain ranges therein. Then of course there were the religious wars from decades past that had faded into distant memory and were only recalled firsthand by the most elderly of Eastborne and within the pages of old tomes. The Dark Oak, or Svelleka as he was known by proper name had long since warred with the peaceful nurturing nature of his sister, the Lady of the Veil, Oprinicus. The city of Eastborne had seen it's share of strife over the course of it's history, and had never fallen into ruin. They were a hardy people, accustomed to standing their ground and fending off those who sought to take what was rightfully theirs.

All of that history made for a stubborn lot, a defiant and proud lineage of men and women that had thought they had seen the worst of what the world offered. Then their gods faded to dust, Oprinicus grew silent and the warring tribes of barbaric hosts that flocked to the violent teachings of Svelleka faded into the tales of Eastbornes past. Rumor and story of other gods belonging to the pantheon of the one true god, the All Father, Q'wainor, found way to the ears of the populace of Eastborne. Their divine presence and guidance had gone silent, and over time the temples that once shouted their glory and spread their doctrines began to fall into obscurity. That was all some fifty years ago, and coincided in near unison with the armies that marched out of the Empire's capitol of Merasheel.

From city to city they cut and paved their path across the land as they led the Inquisition from one ill prepared settlement to the next. A mighty road was left in the wake of their passing, and upon it under extreme protection traveled the mystical Portal, by which those damned by the Empire were cast out in a grand public affair. Whether by force of arms, skilled negotiations from their diplomats, or by sheer virtue of starving a city out, every settlement eventually folded in time and opened their gates to the ruthless Inquisitors. Such was the current dilemma facing the populace of Eastborne.

When the Empire had finally arrived a month ago at the borders around the cliff perched city, few were left to doubt the tales of the Empire's might. The very farmland that swept across the plains beyond Eastbornes walls were over taken with ease. There were stores of grain within the city that could keep them fed for months on end, and based on the display of power taking place outside their walls, the generals and leaders of their army opted to sit tight and take advantage of the strategic advantages that the defenses of their city offered. So they sat, and watched as the Empire and it's vast army settled in around the fringes of their lands. They looked on in awe as the morning watch awoke to find the very flat lands beyond their walls were no more. Now a trio of steadily rising slopes of land had taken shape seemingly over night, each uphill incline leading towards a flat hilltop from which encampments of tents and banners of the Empire's army had taken root.

Safely just beyond the range of any of Eastborne's defensive counter measures, they waited for the morning fog to thicken. Then the siege began.

It started from an unfathomable distance as streaking balls of fire no larger then a bowling ball hurled in straight indiscriminate lines from the trio of flattened hills. They exploded against the walls and ramparts, spreading concussive blasts and enveloping the walls in flame. Illprepared guards caught peering over the protective walls suffered horrid burns and more then a few men lost their lives as their burning bodies were flung from the heights of the walls by the force of the explosions. Screeches filled the air from over head as the volley of fireballs impacted against the upper ridges of their fortifications and kept the archers of Eastborne hesitant to pop their heads up. Those rattling cries from overhead gained shape and form as griffons and their riders broke out of the swirling clouds above Eastborne. More fire rained down from above, though in this instance it descended in the shape of ceramic orbs that shattered and sent globs of viscid alchemist fire splattering about the streets of the city.

Cries of panic spread throughout the avenues of Eastborne as masses of the citizenry sought to find shelter and avoid those who were being consumed by the clinging chemical flames. The smell of burning flesh began to waft through the city, growing more intense with every exploding vial and bursting ball of fire that rained down upon the city. Soldiers rushed about in a state of hysteria, seeking their own shelter while stronger leaders bellowed out for them to hold their posts. Horns blared as scouts peering outward took notice of the ranks of the Empire's army plodding forward towards the walls of the city. For those watching the waters of the bay, word quickly spread of the approach of four massive war galleys closing in.

The Empire answered back to the sound of the horns with the resounding thudding bass of war drums that echoed across the fields and over the city. Their ranks were led by a trio of gleaming constructs that lurched forward through the morning fog on massive rolling pins of steel and iron, crushing whatever came to pass beneath them. Metallic molded shapes of a rams head with massive curved horns emerged from the front of these horrors. Smoke bellowed out from their nostrils as these seemingly self propelled war machines of adamantium rolled forward towards the walls and gates of Eastborne. Soldiers followed in their wake, moving in spread out organized patterns with large oval shields raised and spears at the ready. Ranks of archers escorted by men carrying large walls of bundled up bamboo before them lingered in the rear of the approaching pack. Rows upon rows of cavalry could be seen waiting on the distant ridges of the hills in the background, staying out of the depths of the pending fray for the moment. Still the fire rained down from above, though as the army drew closer those streaking orbs of explosive fire ceased their bombardments.

Volleys of arrows sang from the archers of Eastborne and flaming bundles of fire flung from catapults soared forth to greet the marching ranks of the Empire as they started their charge. The Empires own archers answered in turn as the sky was washed with streaking lines of arrows and other implements of long range war fare. One massive flame laden boulder arced through the air and landed a direct hit squarely across the back of an approaching ram. Cries and cheers rose up from the soldiers who witnessed the devastating impact, but as the smoke cleared and the soot smeared metallic head of the undeterred ram broke through the cloud of ashes those joyous shouts fell to stunned gasps and silence. The front ranks of the charging force broke past the steady unchanging pace of the mystical rams as they sprinted towards the thick walls of Eastborne. Teams of men veered off from that charging force as they neared the walls, they carried with them boxes of steel that were littered with hand sized holes. Carefully they set down at least a dozen of these portable shelters and rushed forward to join the assault as hands of wizards reached out of their personal fortifications and unleashed a variety of magical assaults upon the city walls.

Blasts of lightning crackled across the tops of the walls and sent splinters of the white stone flying. One long section of the wall softened and sank downward as the top half of the wall took on the composition of white mud and enveloped the unfortunate soldiers and archers atop it. Amidst the chaos of the full out assault ladders were hastily rushed forward and slapped against the walls. Hot oil greeted the Empire as cauldrons of the scalding hot liquid poured downward. Still every ladder couldn't be handled, and more were making progress in their ascent then could be stopped. Lines of magic continued to course out from the concealed wizards working their magics from the relatively safety of their personal shelters of steel.

All the while the trinity of gleaming ram headed tanks rolled forward, seemingly impervious to any efforts to stall their advance. As the first of the three arrived, it churned forward towards a stout circular tower that supported a contingent of archers beneath its peaked roof. The head drew back, as a turtle pulling its head back into the security of it's shell before it jolted forward and with a thunderous impact the wall cracked and crumbled apart. The entire foundation of the tower shifted and leaned, sending the men atop it skidding across the floor. Already the head was drawing back and preparing to strike again as the massive steel beams that it rolled upon churned ever forward, crushing the rubble to dust beneath its weight.

As the head of the apparently indestructible ram surged forward and shattered the foundation of the tower once more the entire structure buckled and began to fall apart. It buried the battering beast of metal and smoke beneath an avalanche of white washed stone that nearly drowned out the screams from the men stationed upon the battlement as it caved in on itself and buried them as well. Men from the Empire were already breaching junctures of the wall and engaging the soldiers of Eastborne as spear met sword. The other pair of remaining wall busting constructs rolled forward, one soon to be at the main gate while the other approached the twin of the battlement that had just been torn down. Off in the distance the cavalry began their approach, soon the Empire's much dreaded force of knights would be cutting into the fray, led by the legendary Sir Fyndrake himself. Finally the assault from the griffon riders above relented as the forces of the Empire breached into the city of Eastborne.

 

[ZeroSic]

The city shakes with the sound of each hit of the Empire's assault before her walls are finally being breached. In a corner further away from the walls, sits a dusty house, abandoned when its occupants fled months ago during the time the refugees from Hahn poured in. planks of wood have been flimsily nailed into the house to shut off the windows and door. Inside the house, behind some old furniture sits a trap-door leading to the cellar. The other side of the cellar door has been reinforced by metal. In the cellar, five friends listen to the sounds of destruction.

Three women and two men, they group had expected the Empire to show up ever since the refugees came. They had set up their base in this old house and spent the month fortifying the entrance to the cellar. They knew the town was going to be fucked the moment the Empire showed up so they decided to wait it out in their hide out and stir up a rebellion once the heat died down. Hopefully the inquisition would ignore their house since it looks so abandoned. As a plan B, they had dug a tunnel in the cellar, hidden by a false floor, that connects to the city's sewer system. After they boarded up the house from outside, they used the sewers to enter and leave. If the Empire do search the house, the hidden and fortified cellar door should slow them down long enough for the group of friends to escape into the sewers.

Johnathan had been friends with this group for longer than he cares to remember. When his parents fled, he stayed behind with his friends and helped with the fortifications and the tunnel. After months of preparing and dreading this day, it's finally here. He sits in the cellar with his four other friends and listen to the carnage outside. They group alternates between listening for the empire and have small bouts of conversation to alleviate the tension.

 

[OrlandoWilde]

Down by the docks, a lone figure sat perched on a stack of crates. A sentinel amongst the chaos. People around her screamed for their loved ones and soldiers began to ready arms for the battle ahead. She slowly sipped at a leather-bound flask, pondering how she managed to get herself into this situation. A stranger in strange land. Destined to die a mournless death. She closed her eyes and took another gulp, before opening them once more to the vision in front of her.

The galleys, previously kept at bay by the invisible boundary of the inlet, had begun to make their way towards Eastbourne. Their hulking forms harbingers of ruin. Of death. Behind her, she could hear the rumble of what she could only guess were the city walls crumbling beneath the unstoppable force of The Empire’s war machine. The scent of smoke was beginning to taint the air, and above, a few embers drifted lazily into view.

Kestrel brought the flask up to her lips once more with a shaky grasp. The rum settled on her tongue with a familiar burn, but even as the last few drops slipped past her lips, it did little to soothe her nerves. She screwed the lid of the flask shut and tossed it into the water, the quiet splash drowned out by the symphony of battle. She watched the silver flask bob gently in the water as her fingers found the hilt of her sword. Kestrel’s fingertips caressed its smooth surface, a husky "sorry" escaping her lips, before she hopped off the crates and began to walk back towards the city.

And to do what exactly? Well, she wasn’t sure. To hide? To fight? To find some more rum and drink herself to death? At the very least she’d be numb to the fear of her inevitable impalement on an Empire spear.

She felt her heart pound.

She needed to decide, one way or another.

Dead woman walking.

The crowd was thick. People swarmed every which way, trying to find somewhere, anywhere, to escape. Kestrel felt her shoulder knock against a large form and turned to see a father cradling his young daughter in his arms.

“Daddy, I’m scared! Do something! Please!” The girl screamed, face twisted in utter terror, tears streaking down her soot covered face. The father pressed her face close to his shoulder, placing soothing kisses onto blonde hair.

“Don’t worry darling, as long as Daddy is with you everything will be okay. Daddy will always be with you and Daddy will always love you.”

Kestrel froze, her hand reaching instinctively for the sword hanging at her hip, she watched as the father’s reassurances faded into the crowd as the two pressed onwards. Kestrel’s fingers curved around the handle of the falchion and she slowly unsheathed the blade, holding it in front of her. The polished surface reflected the light of the fires burning around, the smoke-sullied sky above, and two horns warped by its curve. Kestrel tightened her grip before sprinting towards the nearest gathering of Eastbourne soldiers.

It’s easier to make decisions when decisions are made for you.

 

[meomeo]

Another massive explosion thundered, closer this time, perhaps no more than a few blocks away, accompanied by the usual chorus of bloodcurdling screams and hysterical wails. The acrid odor of burned charcoal drifted in from the tiny barred window. Brigid leaned against the cold stone wall and shut her eyes, trying to block it all out.

Another explosion tore at her ears. The entire tower rocked, plaster dust snowed on her, peppering her caked mess of mousy hair with white specks. But apart from that, the invasion could be a world away.

She couldn’t help a wry smile from forming on her lips. By a strange stroke of luck, Brigid found herself in possibly the best spot in all of Eastborne to shelter from the siege: the city’s fortified prison.

Now how did I, a simple honest herb gatherer, end up in a cell again?

**​

Unionize - it was all the rage in Eastborne some years ago. Trade unions of every profession under the sun sprang up like weeds. Eventually, they all came to call themselves by the same word - guilds. And few wield as much power as the Physicians Guild. Within the gilded walls of their grand guildhall, doctors, surgeons and pharmacists of Eastborne divided up the city districts, fixed prices, and indulged in the luxuries their lofty profession (and such shady deals) afforded them.

So when tittle-tattle reached them of a precocious herbalist peddling homemade cures on the street, cutting into their profits, their breeches got in a real twist. Wheels were greased, favors called in, coins exchanged hands under tables, and orders surreptitiously whispered in ears. The city guard got Brigid with an old trick from the playbook - the sting operation. One of their number pretended to have trouble performing his marital duties and sought out the herbalist. To their surprise the ‘master herbalist’ was no more than a willowy girl, barely of legal age, who could not, and did not, put up much of a fight.

Brigid had been locked behind bars since the last full moon, awaiting trial on six counts of trafficking in illegal herbs and two counts of tax evasion. Her trial was indefinitely postponed by the city’s defensive preparations.

**​

She re-opened her eyes. The pandemonium outside didn’t bother Brigid as much as the incessant rattling of cast iron grille close by. It came courtesy of her cellmate – a blonde buxom tart of Brigid’s age – who was held on charges of prostitution. Unlike herself, Brigid had a hunch her cellmate is stone cold guilty. But who am I to judge. Pot, kettle, black. I suppose I am guilty by the letter of the law too.

“Help! Help! Anyone? Let us out!!” the other woman bellowed, her shrill voice echoed in the empty walkways. She had been going at it since the siege began.

Brigid finally had enough. “Will you cut it out, Em? You saw the jailors press ganged into the city guard. Nobody’s coming back for us… even though they took a real liking to you. Come on…” she patted a spot on the tattered cot next to her, “save your strength. I figure our best hope is for one of these boulders to smash a hole in the wall. We'll get out that way. I know the small streets and sewers like the back of my hand. I’ll find us a way out of Eastborne through all the craziness.” And in Brigid’s mind, this wasn’t some fanciful pipe dream. She truly believed she – or they - could survive yet.

The last couple weeks have forced the unlikely pair to bond over their hellish circumstances. The jailors, in truth, took a liking to harassing both girls, taking perverse pleasure in these two birds – attired in threadbare grey tunics barely past their buttocks – under their thumbs. Em was forced to give nightly samples of her services in the dungeon. Brigid struck a deal: she would whip up ointments and potions for the jailors’ sore knees, hangovers and such like; in exchange they promised not to lay a finger on her. The guardsmen held up their end of the bargain. Brigid? Kind of. Her handiwork did what it advertised, but each was laced with a slow-acting poison designed to kill only after considerable mortal suffering.

Well… thanks to the Empire, her conscience is much clearer now. By the sound of it, poison or not, they have already perished in the siege. Although those perverts had it coming anyways.

 

[Alvis Alendran]

Fire was everywhere, and it set the streets into corridors of heat and light. Small pockets of resistance still persisted, a few sergeants keeping control of their men, but it was a losing battle and everyone knew it. Fighting withdrawls were the order of hte day, buying time for civilians to get clear. Small pockets of Imperial soldiers moved into a building to sweep it clear. They smiled as they saw someone crouched in the corner, wrapped in a cloak, seeming to be working on something.
"You there! By the order of the Empire you will stand and face judgement." The lead soldier ordered. The person in the corner obliged by standing up. And up. ANd up. The soldiers flinched back as he reared up to his full hieght, towering over the men. He turned around, popping hte clasp on his cloak to let it fall, and they got a good look at his face. Clear blue eyes watched them, set into a reddish tinged skin, while his lips were peeled back in a wolfish grin, revealing predators tusks. Orc blooded for sure, and it looked to be running strong in this one. The lead soldier noted that the man was holding a two handed axe, a large sweeping blade on one side, and a hooked back spike on the other.

"You will surrender your weapons in the name of-" The half-orc roared. It was a sound that ripped through the air, Loud and intense enough it almost felt like a physical blow.Seveal of the soldiers were descended from mountain peoples, and outirght panicked at the sound, something blood and bone deep from their hisrtory when they had learned that there were terrors waiting for them in the deep places of the world. The axe swept out, adn a terribl carnage began in the building, and the screams of the soldiers filled the air.

A moment later the half-orc emerged, his axe held lightly in one hand, and a fistful of severed heads in the other. He cast his gaze around, seeing the guards fighting to hold off Imperial soldiers as civilians evacuated, adn moved to assit. He launched the heads at the backs of the soldiers, before reaching behind him to pull free his ranged weapon of choice. And Orcish shotput, it was simply a sphere of crude iron near on fifteen pounds, perhaps a shade heavier. To most it was simply heavy ball to be tossed, but to one that had the strength of the Orcs, it was a lethal tool. The sphere was hurled with tremendous force, and it connected with teh chest of a soldier turning in response to the thrown herads. His breastplate caved in, blood spraying from his mouth as he fell backwards. The half-orc swept his axe in a wide arc, aiming low, removing a number of legs before reaching for another shotput.

He didn't throw this one, simply laying in around him with it. The sickening crunch of breaking bone filled the air, andn the soldiers began to turn to face this new threat. the guards didn't waste the opportunity, pressing forward to help crush the oncoming enemy. A few moemnts later, and the bloody business was over. The half-orc turned to the defenders.
"More of them. Where?" He asked. One of them pointed to the west.
"They're trying to break through the main street. If they can push to the market square, they'll be able to cut off more than half of the city." The sergenat told him. The half-orc retrieved his thrown weapon, and stowed it, nodding to the guards.
"Get these people to safety. I will try and buy you some time." He told them, loping off into the distance.

"What the hell was that Sarge?" A guard asked.
"Time. And by all the GOds, I wish we had a hundred more of him in here, we might be able to hold at that point. COme on, get these people moving, we have to keep moving. We can still link up with Shoreman's group." The sergeant ordered. His people moved to comply, losing sight of the half-orc as he melted into the smoke of the burning street. Whereever he was going, someone was likely to be having a very unfortunate day.

 

[Black_Out]

Ranks upon ranks of the Empire's relentless soldiers began to surge into the fringes of Eastborne's streets. The militia that had sworn to protect and hold the city were being driven back further into it's heart with every passing moment. The harsh judgement of the Empire of Merasheel was coming, and everyone in the besieged coastal settlement knew it by this point. But they fought on where retreat wasn't an option due to the raging fires that were threatening to burn portions of the city down to its very foundations.

A mother cradled her dead son against her soot and ash stained body, a soldier of a very young age forced into service. She was so completely lost in the depths of her mourning as the battle surged around her that she didn't take one note of the horned woman that rushed by her to join the clashing of steel. Cries of impending doom mirrored those mother's mournful wails as Kestrel sped past her and joined the ranks of the militia that were making a stand at a trio of crossroads.

"We're bloody screwed! Why don't we just surrender!" One of the novice looking soldiers with a panic stricken face cried out as he hid behind a toppled over wagon that was pouring up a cloud of vulgar acrid smoke into the air around them. It smoldered from the remnants of the alchemical goo that had splattered against it.

The others did their best to ignore the vocal show of cowardice from their comrade as crossbows took aim and returned fire towards the advancing flanks of the Imperial soldiers. The apparent captain of this small squad, a man with a weather worn face that was full of steadfast determination would have none of it though and the solid back hand of his fist promptly ended the whimpering complaints.

The commanders eyes flickered over to Kestrel as she joined their ranks and despite a glance at her horned visage he barely seemed pulsed by it. He just simply dipped his head towards her with a dim glow of appreciation reflected within his eyes before he turned his gaze back out towards the ranks descending upon them. "Charge!" Was the only word that could come to mind in that moment and as the order was barked out the soldiers of Eastborne broke out of their defensive formation and rushed forward to meet the Empires soldiers head on.

-----------------------​

Even down in the secured cellar where Johnathan and his friends had taken refuge the sound of the raging battle above was impossible to ignore. The faint traces of smoke could be smelled filtering into the cellars stale air. Dust would fall and the floorboards over head shook on occasion when a loud blast of an explosive nature rattled the building they had taken shelter in. Above it all though were the muted cries desperation and shouts of battle from the people of Eastborne.

Thomas, who had always been something of a hot head wiped his hand across his face with an exasperated look of pain etched across his features. "This ain't right!" His gaze looked towards the secured doorway above them. "There's not gonna be anyone fucking rebellion if everyone's dead!" The others just stared at him with dumbfounded shocked expressions as he stood up and grabbed a the short blade and wooden shield he had brought with him.

"I ain't dying in this fucking cellar like some coward!" With those words spoken, Thomas took one annoyed glance towards the others. "Stay here if you want, but I'm gonna do my bloody part and kill me at least two of those fucking Empire bastards before they take my life!" He spat out as his jaw clenched before turning and making his way into the tunnel they had painstakingly dug out into the sewers.

"Thomas! Thomas, wait!" His girlfriend Jill, a petite little blonde haired girl barely above eighteen years of age cried out in protest, but Thom wouldn't be persuaded as he vanished from sight into the dank smell of the sewer system. The remaining young men looked towards Johnathan, seeking his guidance while the other girls, Samantha and Heather tried to console Jill's despair at seeing her man head off towards what she only could see as certain death.

-----------------------​

Emily scowled deeply as she turned away from the imprisoning bars of the cell she shared with Brigid and simply let the cast iron pan fall from her hand to rattle upon the floor. Her lips trembled and tears began to puddle from her eyes and swept down her cheeks in streaks. "Damn, damn it all." She mumbled and muttered as her fingers clenched across the bars. "Don'cha know some kinda spell, some witch crafty shit to get us outta here!" Her watery eyes turned to regard her cellmate whom she was sure was a witch of some sort. The guards had said so, after all.

"I don't know much, Bridge, but I do know we donna want the Empire to find us in here!" She stamped her foot on the cobbled floor repeatedly. "Don'cha know wha they do to prisoners?!" She looked at her frantically. "It's straight through the Portal for us if they catch us in here!" Her frantic eyes turned back out towards the realm beyond their seemingly inescapable fate and her screamed out pleas for help rose anew. "Someone! Help! Get us the fuck outta here!"

As if in prophetic answer to the herbalists wishful thinking's the entire building shuddered around them. The cries from the soldiers overhead were drowned out by the rumble of shattering and falling rock, as the prison cell the pair shared happened to be situated in the basement of one of Eastbornes trio of fortified corner battlements. Another of the juggernaut's of adamantium had arrived at its base and it had gained considerable steam as it rolled on its massive crushing pinwheels of doom towards it's target. It literally blasted the walls to smithereens with the force of its ram like head.

As the building was shook to it's very core and dust and brick fell down around them both, a size able chunk of stone clonked right off the top of Emily's head. She dropped to the floor with a surprised yelp and her skull bounced off the floor with a thud as she went completely limp. Another rumble of busting stone filled the air and shook the room as a small puddle of crimson blood began to form under Em's head and stained the stone it rested upon. There was a sound of grating metal as the tower's structure was folding in on itself, and the bars to the prison groaned and shifted. At a glance, Bridgette thought a pair of them had been bent just enough so that her thin body could squeeze through and escape.

-----------------------​

The mountain of red muscle barreled through the streets as they burned around him and sent waves of smoke through the air. Scattered amounts of citizens were passed, some caught in rubble, others wounded and unable to get far quickly on their own or trying to assist those in need. A woman in the customary robes of Oprinicus was passed, her white garments and the thin silken veil covering her face were smeared with ash and soaked with patches of blood as she saw to the last moments of soldier whose body had been burned beyond any hope for salvation.

The screaming cries of nearby battle drew Hrothgar's fury filled attentions away from the casualties and calamities left in the wake of Eastborne's bombardment of flame and battle. Long loping strides of the beastly half orc that were accustomed to navigating both the brambles of the forest and the shifting terrain of the mountains carried him with swift ease through the rubble strewn street towards the sound of blood waiting to be spilled.

Rounding the corner in full stride the sight of the Imperial soldiers charging forward towards a mass of dozens of Eastborne's own greeted him. Kestrel, out of the corner of her eye couldn't help but notice the looming presence that was just joining their ranks from their blind side. The cries of battle filled the air as the opposing forces crashed into each others ranks. Spears and swords rang out as they crossed paths. Gut wrenching gurgled screams and curses bellowed out as blades found their mark, or spears sunk into flesh.

It quickly became obvious that more ranks of the Empire were rounding the bend ahead form the direction of one of the breached walls. Dozens more could be seen hustling to reinforce their position and push their way further into the city. Scattered among their numbers, towards the rear and moving forward with impunity were a trio of knights on fabulous horses of war. Lances that were wielded with precision were lowered in anticipation as the knights, clad in their unsoiled pristine metal armor and helms spurred their fearless mounts forward towards the enemy. The front most of which seemed deadly intent on making the mountain of a half orc his first priority.

 

[ZeroSic]

It was sunny that day but it wasn't really the time for people to enjoy it. The first of the refugees had just arrived a day or two ago and panic had began creeping into the townsfolk as any delusions of security the people might have had were shattered. The five friends were hanging out in their usual place when Sam said, "The empire is coming. What do we do?" Jill said, "My family is going to flee. Should we do the same?" Tom responded, "Nah babe, we stand and fight. The empire wouldn't know what hit 'em. They'll be sorry they messed with Eastborne. My folks are cowards but not me; I'm staying here and protecting this place." While Jill admired Tom's courage, Heidi (Heather) ever the realist, raised a fair question. "You do realize the Empire both out-number and out-gun us right? How are we going to do anything to them?" The group went quiet. Just like it has always been, Sam was the one to come up with an answer. "We hide out somewhere and wait for the Empire to go through the town. Once they have passed this place, they won't suspect a rebellion to brew here. We'll gather recruits from all other cities that the Empire attacked and take them down. We can't stand up to them directly so we'll use guerilla tactics." Tom didn't like the suggestion but he reluctantly went along with it.

The idea of hiding in the cellar of this abandoned house and creating a secret tunnel to the sewers was Johnathan's idea. He used resources from his dad's old shop to fortify the cellar, dig the tunnels and arm themselves. Johnathan was a emotional kid and a bit of hothead himself but compared to Tom, he was very laid back. He could also be quite smart when his emotions didn't get int he way of his judgement. Thus, we was treated seen as the smarter and more logical of the two boys. He didn't like the idea of having to sit around while the people got slaughtered but he saw the futility of facing the Empire in their current state and he ended up going with more long term plan and living to fight another day.

Today was the day, they had discussed and planned for ever since the refugees arrived. Johnathan gritted his teeth and primed himself to go through with the plan; keeping himself calm by assuring himself that there is literally nothing he can do to save the town but wait out the storm and spearhead the rebellion. The four people he cared about the most were with him in the cellar so he was managing to stay frosty. That was until Tom stood up and headed into the sewers. Just like that, the first crack appeared in his composure. Tom is going to die and he must do something. What's worse, when Tom exits the sewers to fight the Empire, it would lead the soldier straight to the cellar. Johnathan's thoughts ran a million a second. Stay Frosty. Stay Frosty... Johnathan had to do something and fast... to save his friends and keep the rebellion alive.

Johnathan had a supernatural talent of being able to use anything he could get his hands on as an effective and deadly weapon. However, he had one weapon that he designed a long time ago. He trained with this weapon ever since he first designed it as a kid. As he grew, the weapon also grew with him. When ever his dad would teach him anything about weapons, he would incorporate it into his signature weapon and refine the design. As he grew in size and strength, he made bigger and heavier weapons. It was a kind of mace which got thicker and heavier the further it got from the handle (It's like a wooden baseball bat that had long nails hammered on to it so that it causes more damage. Except the bat is made out of metal). He quickly stood up and grabbed his signature weapon and ran into the sewers after Thomas. "Tom, wait! If you go out there now, you'll not only get yourself killed but you'll lead the Empire straight to the cellar. Stop!" Johnathan yelled as he disappeared into the sewers after Thomas.

 

[meomeo]

Brigid stared glassily at Emily’s body. A dull ringing drowning her ears; an imaginary icepick piercing her heart. Then, with a loud crash, another boulder collapsed atop the rubble, burying the blond prostitute for good. And that was the last Brigid saw of her first friend and lover.

****​

One week ago…

Life in the prison during small hours was a mixed bag. On one hand, the inmates enjoyed some respite and privacy from the guards. But the nights also brought frigid temperatures that turned the floor slabs into blocks of ice, made worse by the threadbare tunics they all wore. Petitions for blankets had been snorted at and dismissed.

The night shift guard, a rotund half-orc ironically called Little Rhodri, slumped heavily over a table, his guttural snores reverberating in the cellar. A single dying torch and slats of moonlight from an iron-barred slit high up the wall provided the only sources of light. The herbalist and the prostitute each curled up in their usual corners, twisting and turning, kept awake by the damp chilliness.

It has been an unremarkable day for Brigid – as far as prison life is concerned. The morning began with taking stock of the guards’ myriad complaints, after which she catalogued the herbs she required, neatly on a piece of parchment. To stay in their good graces, Brigid went as far as jotting down alternatives for each herb (knowing the city had been sealed off, and therefore supplies might be scarce). The afternoon was nonstop grinding leaves and brewing, to the point her wrists protested achingly. At bath time, with Little Rhodri sleazily on watch, she washed quickly with a sponge and a half bucket of water. Dinner consisted of bread hard enough to chip her molars, over boiled vegetables, and a thin slice of salted ham. After dark, Brigid had the luxury of being left alone. The same cannot be said for Emily. She had returned from the dungeons tottering on wobbly knees and sporting a nasty purple bruise around her throat. Perhaps counting down time to the Empire’s advance – the guards are increasingly brazen and abusive.

Brigid was suddenly spoken to. “Ay witch! Lil' Rhodri dozin’ ‘n snorin’ up a storm, it’s yours doin’, innit? Casted some spell on that pot a’ tea ya cook’t ‘im, ah bet?”

“No.” Brigid retorted curtly, warily. “And watch your mouth. I’m no witch.”

Still, Brigid had to admit Emily’s melodic voice – tinged with the slums accent long beaten out of Brigid – was welcome on the ears. A break from the harsh orders, mockings, and threats she endured all day. And of course, Emily guessed right. Brigid had put Little Rhodri to slumber - dried chamomile leaves sprinkled into his herbal brew did the trick. This could be our little secret. She doesn’t strike me as a rat. "Though I got an inkling he’d stay fast asleep… ‘til the fourth bell of the night at least.”

A chuckle came from the other end of the cell. Chains rattled. Brigid sat up as Emily crossed the cell and - before she could utter ‘What are you doing? Go away!’ – Emily had plopped herself down, with no regard for Brigid's own space. Brigid tensed – this level of intimacy made her wary, no thanks to her upbringing. But Emily brought warmth, along with a musky feminine scent reminding her of opening a very ripe fruit, and summertime flower blossoms. Brigid subdued her instinct to scoot away even when Emily weighed her head onto her shoulder.

“Ah owe you. Fuckin’ Lil’ Rhodri, he the cruelest of ‘em all. He woulda kept me downstairs all night.” Emily cursed bitterly. In the dim, flickering light, Brigid saw for herself the half-orc’s nastiness: fresh, angry welts crisscrossed Emily’s inner thighs like a map of Eastborne. The sight dredged up a sea of memories. Brigid ventured a finger and caressed the tender flesh. Emily did not flinch away. Brigid’s heart, for reasons unknown to her at the time, quickened.

“I could make you some ointment. Helps with the pain.” Brigid said, clearing her parched throat.

“Thanks fer offerin’. But ah’d be fine. Ah’ve ‘ad johns outside cut me up worse.”

“My master, she used to beat me too. I mean, she did take me from the streets which was charitable of her. But I was her house slave first, apprentice second. Woman was moody, mostly mean. Whenever I lagged behind on my chores, or mixed up my herbs, or talked like… you do, she’d get the cane. Never held back. So I had plenty practice making that ointment. Now I make it better than she ever did, if I say so myself. I used to have bruises and scars all over. Here, here, and ‘round here too. Look – can’t see them no more, yeah?” She turned her head, tears stinging her eyes, and saw that Emily was crying too… with a fiery glint in her emerald blue eyes. The tips of their noses touched. And then Brigid was kissed for the first time.

The kiss started off light as a feather. Soon, they were as if trying to devour each others’ tongues. Emily tasted of musky saliva and salty tears.

The front of her tunic lifted. Emily’s deft fingers touched her in places no one ever did. Brigid was appalled, embarrassed, skittish, very conscious. Emily must have felt it. She broke off.

“New tah this? Ya alright?” “Is… is this normal?” “Girls like me n’ you? We ain’t neva gonna be normal. Ya want me to stop or what?” “No. Please...” “Ah know. You so wet, and delish. Mah pretty lil’ witch.” “I’m not a witch, you… fat… whore.”

Emily responded by roughly rubbing a spot that caused Brigid to gasp and blaspheme. But I made sure to return the favor later on. And the next night. And the next next night...

****​

Like a zombie, Brigid slipped through the bars and trudged up the ruins… right into the cauldron of battle. Kill me. Let me die me so I can see my Em again. The woman in the tattered prison garb just stood there, amidst all the spells, arrows, and clattering hooves.

She felt sharp pain as a massive gauntlet grabbed her by the nape of her neck. Lifting her off her feet and throwing her face down, ass up on horseback. The horse took off with a loud neigh, the saddle digging painfully into Brigid’s side. But the pain was nothing compared to her shattered heart.

 

[OrlandoWilde]

Kestrel stared vacantly at the guard shouting orders in front of her. Spit flew from a dark moustached lip, a look of carefully controlled stoicism contorting his weathered face as he commanded his men to careen towards their inevitable death. His words were unheard though, with Kestrel’s focus consumed wholly by the pulse thundering in her ears, and it took the sounds of a nearby roof caving in to pull her out of her momentary reverie.

Empire soldiers were pouring through the streets like bloated vermin. Some were clad in full plate, steadily lumbering through the sea of bodies that were beginning to pile up. Others were less encumbered, though no less dangerous as they sprinted through the scuffle, blades twirling in a macabre dance, carving bloody swathes through the clamour.

“Well this was a fuckin’ stupid idea” Kestrel declared to no one in particular. She ran her hand through greasy hair and glanced around the battlefield. To the left she spotted a small group of overwhelmed guards barely staving off the unrelenting onslaught and with quick flourish of her falchion and a wink in the direction of a guard that had been stealing glances at her for the past few moments, Kestrel dove head-first into the fray.

Wary of her unarmoured form, Kestrel kept to the edges of the skirmish, dodging and weaving just out of reach. She sent her blade singing through the air in carefully controlled arcs. Her body burnt with the liquid fire coursing through her veins, and the world narrowed around her, such that she only barely registered the rust-skinned behemoth barrelling past her periphery. The sounds of metal crashing together filled her ears as she settled into a rhythm, focussed only on the deft movements of her sword-arm. Each twist of the falchion cleaved more flesh. Spilling more blood. Kestrel could smell the coppery tang heavy in the air, could almost taste it, eliciting a barely suppressed growl as she threw herself towards an injured soldier propped up against a ruined wall.

His long brown hair was falling out of its braid, obscuring the bloody mess that was his face. Kestrel took a moment to study the man. His head was bowed slightly, lips moving in what Kestrel could only surmise was a silent prayer to their sole God. Wearily, he tilted his head up a fraction to lock eyes and everything seemed to slow as recognition blossomed on his face. Kestrel felt a gob of bloodstained spit land on her cheek.

“For the glory of the Empire, demon scum.” The guard snarled through gritted teeth as a hand slid down to his side. Kestrel sighed and jammed her falchion through the ribs of the soldier. A dagger clattered to the ground.

“For the glory of the Empire indeed.”

Kestrel turned back towards the scrum, only taking a few steps before she felt the solid impact of a leather boot in the back, sending her skidding along the cobblestones below. The pain from the friction was distant though, as she rolled to deflect an incoming blade with her own. Metal ricocheted off metal as Kestrel narrowly avoided impalement and instead received a deep gash in her left arm. Growling, she kicked out at the soldier’s knee, connecting with a satisfying crunch as it bent back further than it probably should. A blood curdling howl assaulted her ears as the thug hobbled away quickly into a nearby house, giving her time to pull herself to her feet. Dazed, she turned towards the house and began pursuit.

~*~​

The building was all but ruins. Light filtered through siege-punched holes in the walls. The wooden frame of the house stood like the rib cage of some large beast slain in times long past. In some places the timbers glowed, embers scattered across the dark surface like stars in a pitch sky. Kestrel tapped her sword against the wood, each strike sending a spray of sparks into the smoke-laden air as she paced further into the building.

“I’m putting in all this effort to stay alive, but you know, if all Empire fuckers are as ugly as you are, I’d rather neck myself anyway. Stuff seeing that ev’ry day” Kestrel called out to the seemingly abandoned room, bloodstained lips quirking to reveal a fanged smirk, “6 feet o’ dirt’s more attractive than your ugly mug, mate.”

A thin layer of ash coated the old timbers underfoot, shifting with each step. A set of smudged tracks lead up ramshackle stairs.

“Come on out, I’ll make it quick, sailor’s promise,” Kestrel used in a sing-song voice.

Somewhere upstairs there was the sound of shifting, like a drawer being opened. Kestrel inched slowly up the stairs, their decrepit timbers noisily protesting the weight being placed on them.

“Come on, I don’t want to spend my last moments verbally jerking off some limp-dicked bilge-rat, get your hands out your pants so I can cut them off,” Kestrel growled at the empty air.

She was just cresting the top of the stairs when she felt something encircle her throat. The wire bit into her flesh as she was wrenched backwards along the rough floorboards, feet scrambling to keep purchase. Blood that was too dark began to flow from a narrow wound as the ligature threatened to slice the vital arteries lying beneath. Hot breath caressed her ear in grunts and heavy pants while she struggled to take a breath. Her hands reached up and clutched at her throat, trying unsuccessfully to loosen the garrote in any way possible. As Kestrel began to feel the edges of her vision darken, she braced herself. Knees bent slightly, she launched backwards, head arching as she threw her body with as much force as she could muster against her captor. She felt the garrote tighten and feared her head would come clean off, but instead the momentum sent their bodies slamming into the wall behind. A scream of pure agony tore from the soldier’s lips as Kestrel felt her horns gore tender flesh, the impact sending waves of pain reverberating throughout her skull and momentarily stunning her. The grip around her throat loosened and she heard a body crumple to the floor behind her.

Kestrel turned, gasping for air, barely conscious, and stared at the bloodied form beneath her, sending a final kick to his ribs to ensure he stayed down. Slowly, she knelt beside him. A slender hand reached out and grasped his stubble covered chin roughly and forced his eyes up to hers, making sure he could see the sharp point of her fangs and the graceful curve of her horns. She growled, a low, deep, rage-filled rumbling in the back of her throat, and smiled as she watched him flinch, fear twisting his face. Slowly, she unsheathed a knife from the leather belts around her waist. She played with the familiar leather-bound hilt for a moment, smooth in her hands, before sliding the keen edge across soft flesh, watching as crimson rivulets spilt over cool metal.

~*~​

As Kestrel stood up, the world seemed to bloom around her again, the room she was in expanding and the sounds of battle returning to greet her ears with their dissonant cries. Kestrel rubbed the ragged gash on her neck, wincing, bound to be yet another scar to add to the collection, and not a pretty one at that. Her chest felt tight as she took another shuddering breath in, the smoke burnt her lungs but she didn’t care. Every muscle in her body ached. Bile was rising in her throat. She just wanted this all to be over.

 

[Alvis Alendran]

Hrothgar craned his head to listen to the world around him. Not his first time in a fight like this, but perhaps the one that held the highest stakes. Teh sound of horses was becoming more of an present issue, and he knew that it meant cavalry ahd gotten itself moving. He looked back to see what was coming. Knights, pride of the Empire, three of them, and one seemed to meet his gaze. The lowered lances adn onrushing beasts made it clear that there was only going to be time for a brief reaction before he was overtaken. He pulled a shotput from the puch at the small of his back, and took aim. He knew that he could easily hit a knight from this range, but it wasn't likely that he coudl kill one through their shield. But he had a target. The lead knight had his horse with his head lowered, making a clerar field of aiming for his lance, which in most cases was the sensible thing to do.

Most cases did not invlve an orcish shotput.

The iron ball flew out straight adn true. If it had been a throwing axe, a jevelin, anything meant to cut or pierce, the armoured chamfron on the horse would have served it well. But a solidball of iron travelling with all the speed that could be gained from a skilled launch opposed by the mass and momentum of a charging warhorse, it was a different outcome. The ball slammed home, the horse giving a shattering cry as the armour was driven back into it's head, the body going limp almost instantly. The knight was clearly a professional, the moment he felt his horse going from under him, he disengaged his feet and pushed off of hte saddle, letting his shield go to let himself roll along the ground when he hit it, dissipating the force fo the fall.

Hrthgar swept his axe at a lance from the next knight, slapping it into the street, the wooden werapon exploding, and the knight crying out as his shoulder wrenched from the sudden shift of angle. Hrothgar lunged forward to let the last night pass him by. He moved to take out the unhorsed man, but found a standing warrior armed with a tossed sword from one of his comrades still on horseback. The knight gave ground as Hrothgar came on, avoiding sweeps of the axe, knowing that trying ot parry directly would be a death knell for certain, but not willing to give up the fight. Hrothgar knew the game he played, planning to goad him forward until one of hte still ounted men could flank him and bring him low.

Hrothgar feinted a strike at his foe, but then turned and lunged back the way he'd come, his axe sweepign low. The knight that had been coming for him clearly seemed shocked at the sudden change of direction, and the axe sheared the legs fro the left side fo hte horse, dumping the knight to the street. This knight landed less skillfully, but was still on his feet by the time Hrothgar could round on him. He saw his first foe rush in to his companion's aid, and swing in a powerful troke at Hrothgar. Teh half-orc swept his arm up to deflect the blade, the weapon striking sparks off of the metal rings on the arm, and Hrothgar let his axe hammer into the newest knight. Blood was in the air, adn the man toppled, Hrothgar kicking him free of his weapon.

The last mounted man trot by, evaluating the situaion. He gave a sharp call, and Hrothgar had to dive tot eh ground as arrows scythed through the space he'd just occupied. Taking a chance, Hrothgar put his shoulder to the door of a building, crashing into the building. It was on fire, but not collapsing, and clear enough to move in for a few moments. He siezed a table fromt he floor, and kicked the legs off of it, carrying it before him as he charged back outside. Arrows thudded intot he heavy wood, keeping him clear. He blocked another stike from the unmounted knight before he spun and hurled the tabletop at the mounted man. Teh heavy wood spun on edge and crashed intot he wearrior, taking him from his horse. An arrow struck Hrothgar's shoulder, staggering him for a moment, and he felt his temper flaring up, begging for release. He also knew doing so would get him killed.

Hrothar swept his axe at the dismounted knight, halting his axe with a great deal of effort but letting it fall to hook the back spike ontot he nknight's armour, and drag the much smaller man forward. Hrothgar spun about, using hte man like a shield from arrows, the shots scattering from the armour. The knight let go of his sword adn drew out a dagger, plunging it between two of the rings on Hrothgar's arm. The half-orc repaid the gesture by slamming his hand into the face of the knight hard enough to snap the man's neck. With his new cover, he charged towards the archers.

 

[OctopusPrince]

Flora had made a truly terrible mistake. It could hardly be said that she had any reason to anticipate this sort of power from the coming legion of the Empire, and yet, she some how felt to blame for the choices she made, thinking their monotheistic dominion would meet its match against the gods of old, or at least that they'd never make their way to Eastborne. That was... she realized as fire fell from the sky and the roar of combat fell around her shop, naive, stupid, perhaps even blind. The very foundation of her shop rattled from the chaos going on, and while she could run, could fight perhaps, could take cover somewhere safer, she felt truly as though she had nowhere to go. While the militia had yet to come tearing her door down to discover her there, alone in the quaint little tea shop, she quivered and hid herself behind a set of sturdy shelves, only left to anticipate their arrival, praying to the gods she knew that that would not come to be. She had heard rumors, everyone had, of what the Empire did when it fell with its mighty forces upon a city or town... those rumors were honestly too horrific to believe until just then, and Flora was stifled to stillness by the thoughts of what she had heard, at the possibility that they could be true. Destruction, slavery, banishment, torture... Could all of it really be true? Could such depravity really be right at her door? She could hear screams, battle cries, the pounding sound of Eastborne's mighty, stone threshold being stormed and broken in, and yet she couldn't move.

What was wrong with her? Of all times she ought to fight now right? For her new home, for the place she'd chosen to be her place of rest? What of the children who came into her shop looking for sugared lilacs? What of the baker who came in at mid day for a nice, warm cup of tea? What of the young women who came in for sweet, summer scents to dapple on their skin or men who shyly meandered in looking for their darling's favorite flowers? Shouldn't she fight for them, even if none of them had come to see that she was alive, that she had escaped? No one would, she realized... Since she'd settled in Eastborne she had made a pointed effort to keep everyone at arm's length and now... even with her mind full of familiar faces, she could think of no one to run to, no one to save her from the looming promise of all sorts of terror. Some pots in her shop came smashing to the ground as the building shook again, nearly rousing a yelp out of Flora if not for the fact that she clapped both of her hands over her mouth, curling into herself as though that alone would be enough to keep her safe. It wasn't-- it wouldn't be when the militia overtook Eastborne's troops and sacked the city... Would even her hand in the fray be enough to turn the tide?

Flora was only a wood elf, just one woman, not particularly strong but trained enough in combat and magic that she could at least hold her own, she had many times before she'd decided to peel herself away from her nomadic elders and take up a simpler, more domestic life... She had move to Eastborne with the hope to settle herself in and eventually, slowly, make herself known. To find someone sweet to share the nights with. To perhaps, have children, a home away from the small sleeping quarters in her shop, a proper, decent life. Eastborne had seemed like the perfect place before Merasheel's looming godhood and the followers of that faith had built themselves up as a force to be reckoned with, a torment upon all other faiths with an iron determination to see all kneel to their power and all other gods fall to dust. Flora almost, in her deliriously frightened mind, felt the retreat of the old gods she worshiped, the ancient ones who protected the woods and the creatures within. Perhaps Merasheel was the one true god. Just fathoming it had her stricken all the more. She battled internally with as much vigor as the chaos outside-- should she run? Should she fight? Should she stay? She could feign innocence perhaps, she had not used her powers in nearly half a decade-- the flowers in her shop did not turn to her in wanting or blossom in her nearness-- perhaps the Empire would think her just a simple elf with no magical talent... but then what? Slavery? To be sold to some worshiper of this tyrant god, lover of the tyrant Empire, to kneel and serve and bed... She was nearly in tears just to think of it. If not for her age, and her racing thoughts she might have broken into hopeless sobs already.

No... No she had to fight. At least then-- no matter what they did to her, she would not damn herself as a coward. This was her home, she had to protect it. She got to her feet, her legs shaking beneath a long, billowing skirt of black fabric, and she glanced around her, finding a pot of wild roses that had yet to meet its end on the floor due to all of the commotion. She whispered words of prayer as she extended her hand over the plant, and while it took a moment for her magic to attune itself, the roses began to burst to life, producing a thick, whirling vine that she took up and snapped clean from the plant into her hand. She tested the weight of it in her palm, and took a deep breath. Her home. She had to protect her home.

She stepped out into the streets and was met with cacophony, the sound, the sight, the sheer abruptness of it all sending her body into motion long before her mind comprehended it as her vine whipped out across from her and caught up one of the assailing knights around the neck, yanking the man clean off of his horse the ground with a vicious thud. She snapped the whip again and the thorns upon it grew long and sharp as daggers, stabbing into the knight with a series of sickening squelches. She watched the blood pool and looked further down the street, seeing what was frankly an enormous orcish man struggling with other mounted knights, seeming at least well enough to handle his own. She nearly smiled-- people were fighting back, people weren't going easily to the Empire... she shouldn't either, and some of the fear she felt was relinquished, only to overflow again as a rain of arrows came down the street. She ducked herself away, narrowing avoiding the deadly shower as she watched the half orc up ahead maneuver, using a dead body to guard himself from the onslaught. Brutish. But effective.

She watched as he began to run, and while the arrows had yet to fall a second time she raced out, yanking a sword from the hip of the knight she'd killed and sprinting to catch up to the man she'd watched fight so effectively. If he'd let her help, perhaps they could clear the way, find other civilians willing to fight. She expertly coiled her thick vine whip into her hand, the thorns refusing to pierce her, and she came up near to the Orc just as more arrows began to fall. "I'm here to help!" She called to him as she unwound her whip and swung it up above, sheering most of the arrows that came down in their radius. Should she tell him her name? Would he care? Was this the time? Probably not. Just then-- she had offered her help. It was too late to back out now, to stop at this... for the first time in many years, she had killed a man and entered battle... The Empire's legion would torture her, enslave her, banish her or worse if they won. They'd take children and wives as slaves and firing practice, they'd force men to give sacrifice to Merasheel or face the blade if they won. They would burn beautiful, peaceful Eastborne to the ground if they won. So they simply could not win without a damn good fight.

 

[Black_Out]

Rough pressure of the knights palm squeezed down across Brigid's delicate spine as she laid bowed across the front of the majestic warhorses sturdy saddle as it trotted through the rubble strewn surrounds of the breached tower and wall. "Fourth Infantry! Third Archery! and Seventh Cavalry! We'll establish our triage here!" The commanders words barked out over the din of seemingly distant battle taking place mere streets away from this apparently claimed patch of Eastborne's turf as his steed marched about the swarming soldiers.

His piercing stern gaze found it's way to his personal squire who eagerly followed along in the wake of his movements. "You'll be of little use to me as dead squire and I'm tired of breaking in new ones! So take this blabbering mess of a girl and move her to the internment camp immediately!" Tents were quickly being erected in due haste while several heavy drums rang with booming strikes that echoed out over the roar of battle and communicated to other positions a simple message on the situation at this front presently. With an abrupt and unconcerned lift and toss by the nape of her neck, Brigid was sent hurtling to the ground at the feet of the aforementioned squire.

The relatively young lad with tangled blonde hair and wide attentive brown eyes quickly moved towards Brigid and drove his knee into her back forcing her face down into unforgiving hard cobblestone road with a press of his hand. "Make sure to gag her until we can confirm whether or not she's a witch, and bind those hands so there is no finger waggling!" The commander snorted out with one last look towards the eager to please squire who emphatically answered. "Yes Sir Luwundale! Right away Sir Luwundale!"

Immediately went about working a tightly twirled up sweat and dirt stained wash rag around Brigid's face, forcing it to cover and dig into her lips as he cinched it painfully into place against the back of her head. Small sturdy leather bags were next in line as the squire manhandled Brigid's arms and forced the tight fist sized sacks around her hands and clasped them into place. Shackles were the last instrument to come into play as he forced her wrists together behind her back and locked the wiry thin young ladies arms together against the dip of her aching back.

As she was being yanked unceremoniously up off the ground by the young yet physically fit squire of a similar age to her own, a most unsettling sight crossed before Brigid's field of view. It was an image straight out of a minstrels stories or an artist's rendering of things she had heard of but never once had seen, or perhaps even thought she would view with her own eyes. Dulled reddish scales along the belly of fantastic beast, thicker, heavier crimson saturated natural armoring swept along the back of what could only be a dragon. A dragon without wings, and with a rider of gargantuan stock settled across a black ashen saddle.

Horns sprouted from the helmet of Sir Fyndrake, in mimicry of the dragons own intimidating and lethal looking curved bony protrusions. The lumbering steed and it's rider, who bore a hammer that looked like it weighed twice as much Brigid and could crush a skull flat with one swing passed by her, blotting out the rising sun briefly from her view as it trudged up to the wreckage of the collapsed tower. There was a reverberating inhale as the beastly mount reared up briefly and it's chest expanded before it lowered it's wide open maw towards the very opening that Brigid had stumbled out of. Scorching, flesh blistering flame flowed out of the land bound dragons mouth and as the roar of that exhaled inferno swept and washed across the rubble, the curdling screams and shrieks of men and women still trapped within filled the air.

---------------------------​

Thom had settled his mind up and set his face into a grim stone cast expression as he plodded through the rank and foul waters of the shadow filled sewer tunnel. He stubbornly refused to hear Johnathan's pleas and calls for him to come back and rethink his decision and marched on towards what was surely his own death. His hand adjusted on the leather grip of the short blade clenched at his side as remained laser focused on the sounds of battle emanating from above and his path towards joining it. As his eyes made out the gleam of the metal rungs of a ladder set into the stone wall of the sewer, Thom slung the simple wooden shield he carried in his other hand across his back and sheathed his stout short sword.

"My mind's made up John!" He scowled and his voice seethed with anger and frustration as he arrived at the ladder and turned to look towards his pursuing friend. "Your plan sounded all well good, but it doesn't sound so bloody fantastic now!" His water logged boot settled on the bottom rung of the ladder while his hands gripped a rung higher up, though he hesitated.

Directly above them the intensity of the fight was fully audible. Swords rang against shields. The very distinct sound of flesh being sliced open and the accompanying guttural screams and grunts of agony issued down through the grating above Thom. Light trickled down over him in a shaft of dusty quality that was blotted out on occasion as combatants passed by over head. Thom gritted his teeth together, looking towards John with an imploring determined gaze. "Fuck this man, let's go! Let's get in the fight! Cut these Empire bastards down!" Thom lifted his foot upward and began to ascend towards the iron grate above.

Those brave words and equally intended movements upwards were abruptly frozen in place as a spray of blood showered down from the grating and splattered Thom right across his upturned face. His grip fumbled on the ladder and his foot slipped as he fell backwards with a shriek of surprise and landed awkwardly against the floor of the slick yet brutal stone of the sewage tunnel. "Ahhh!" His hand came across his back as his shield cracked and splintered from the impact. Thom rolled over onto his side, face burying half way into the sewage swirling past him as he spasmed and grasped at the broken frame of the shield.

One long thick splinter could be seen, clouding the back of Thom's shirt with a fresh sweeping stain of blood that flowed from the deep wound where it had pierced into his back. Johnathan wasn't much of a healer, but it didn't take one to tell that Thom was gravely injured and that the wooden shrapnel of his shield that was burrowed into his back wouldn't be something easily remedied or pulled out. As Thom's blood swept into the sewer and was carried across the surface of the murky liquid, his friends face could be seen quickly going pale in tone as he gasped painfully for air and spewed curses from his lips.

---------------------------​

From the darkness of the doorway Kestrels recovering eyes were spared a brief moment to watch the battle unfolding mere strides before her. Soldiers from both sides were strewn about the convergence of streets, several wounded to various levels of severity while others, some of which by her own hand were outright dead. The horse of one of the Empire's knights thrashed about further up the besieged roadway, it's front fore limbs cleaved in half by the sweeping axe of Hrothgar while Kestrel was busy indoors with her own problems.

With one broad swing of a long blade that sent one of Eastborne's men spinning to his knees as it sliced across his shoulder a knight in not so gleaming plate mail stepped forward towards the death throes of the warhorse. He led his own massive steed by the reins with his free hand and without sparing another moment of consideration to the enemy he had just cleaved down he sank the point of his sword directly down through the belly of the horse, piercing the joints in the armor as he put the steed out of it's misery.

Immediately his attentions were pulled back into the fray, and with one swift movement that had been practiced over and over during the course of his life he was back up in the saddle of his chain mail barded black war horse. Suddenly the towering steed was turned into a lethal instrument of destruction that seemingly worked in near perfect unison with the rider on it's back. Blade and hooves wrought a path of devastation around the mounted knight as a handful of soldiers from Eastborne were swiftly sent to their ends.

As the din of the noise surrounding her gained clarity again, Kestrel couldn't help but note the distinct creak of a floor board somewhere behind her in the empty smoke filled house. She turned in time to bear witness to the source as it materialized into view in the back corner of the darkened chamber that was once someone's living room. Shimmering, in a field of images that swayed in a dizzying pattern that made it impossible to focus on any single one stood a man draped in white robes that were clean of any blemish. Blue stars decorated it's flowing embroidery, the symbol of the God of Magic, Merasheel.

Already his hands danced and gestured in her direction while the very air around him crackled with power as his voice spoke in a thunderous archaic jumble of nonsense to Kestrel's ear. His blurred and indiscernible image snapped a hand forward towards her as a singular metal ring was hurled in her general direction. In a single strobe of blinding light the ring multiplied by six and enlarged in size as they spun towards her from head to toe. The rings opened, severing their perfect circular shape as they sped quick as arrows to embrace their target and enclose her in their mystical bindings.

The white robed haze of the wizard meanwhile was already flowing and turning his attentions unto yet another magical assault in the event that Kestrel would somehow avoid this entrapment.

---------------------------​

Hrothgar plowed forward, holding the dead knight before himself as he surged through the streets towards the archers ahead. The knight from Kestrel's vantage point had turned his attentions up the road towards where Flora was just now joining the rampaging half blooded orc's charge. The battle here had taken an unexpected turn for the worse with the inclusion of that monstrous red skinned primal force and as much as the elder knight hated to admit it the call for reinforcements needed to go out. It's not that he felt they were in danger of being driven back, far from it, but that orc and the arrival of that magic wielding elf were slowing down the whole affair.

Clearly and presently not endangered himself, the grizzled veteran knight swung his face guard aside and lifted a brass horn to his lips that he acquired from where it was strapped upon his saddle. While his knees guided his steed back up the road towards the troublesome pair of foes the horn sounded once and it's sound resonated over the discordant noise of battle. The instrument was settled back into place as the knight tucked himself low along the neck of his valiant steed and spurred it forward, blood smeared blade in hand and at the ready.

He wouldn't arrive in time though to make any immediate difference, and nor would Sir Fyndrake whose attentions were drawn towards the sound of the horn as it rose up from a few streets further beyond the city's walls. Arrows though streaked through the air in greeting from the archers, most finding themselves deflected by the spin of Flora's whip, though a handful trickled through. As it grew clear that arrows would soon be a non option, the leather clad rank of archers began to turn and draw back. As they split, the raising sight of pikes appeared, being lifted to the ready by crouched soldiers littered among the archers retreating numbers.

They dug the ends of their weapons into the ground, ten men in all and formed a wall of waiting impalement as a young man stood tall behind them. His long brown hair fell behind his back as his clean white simple robes with the single blue star of Merasheel denoted his wizardly rank as an apprentice within the Empire. He was already finishing the incantation of a spell as the pack of archers cleared out around him and the pikes were set into position. With a hand coated in black sludge drained from a flask onto his palm he swept his gesturing hand forward and finished the simple, yet effective spell.

As the black ichor of flung forward and dissipated into the air, the cobble lined roadway beneath the feet of Hrothgar and forward for what would be a few long strides of the mountainous half orc became covered in the slippery black grease. Flora, who lagged behind the far greater strides of the barbaric brute was fortunately a few strides away from finding her own feet under the slick oil that might threaten to spill Hrothgar directly into the waiting line of pikes.

 

[OctopusPrince]

Flora flinched at the blaring sound of the horn just beyond them, and a potent, almost overwhelming sense of regret nearly caught her up and dragged her to stillness. She could've stayed in her shop, but it was far too late for that. The knights ahead were ready to impale both her and the half orc ahead of her, and with the magic slick that had poured over the street, she had a sudden flash of vivid imagining, of coming down face to face with one of those warriors of the Empire, speared through by an unyielding iron point, another dead body to toss aside in the siege. She brought her whip down in a swing towards the half orc and latched him in two rings of it, knowing that she might harm him some with the barbed thorns on the whip but feeling with a critical certainty that it was better he be nicked by some thorns than hoisted onto those spears. She had nowhere near the strength she did-- it'd be a miracle in itself if his momentum didn't snap the magically charged whip, but she tried at least, she tried to stop him, if only to keep him from such an immediate, fruitless death.

Taking in the situation as a whole, she regarded the white robed figure behind the brigade with a taught, snarling expression, still yanking and tipping all of her body weight backwards against the half orc's charge. A Merasheel worshiper-- a conjurer of magics who would use his gifts for evil and death. She despised the god privately, if only because it seemed that anyone who followed the patron of science and knowledge ended up corrupted by a need for power. As holy as that man looked with his clean white robes, as quickly and efficiently as he had channeled the spell to slick the streets with black oil, she could have no respect for him, that he'd use the gifts of his god, the power bestowed upon him, to see her beautiful town toppled. All of these warriors with their preparation and battle positions, with their relentless onslaught of Eastborne made her seethe and regain in herself over her fear, a determination to fight back.

To what end was this conquest? To own the world? To give it to their god? And then what? When all was Merasheel's, when everyone believed only in Him and those who did not or would not were dead or gone, what conquest would they take on next? It was a poisonous desire, this powerful effort to overtake everyone who was not like them-- it was.... unnatural. While Flora had long left behind the ideals of her brethren, the attention they dedicated to the natural cycles of the world for society's constructed ideologies of normalcy, she could not abide this, could not find it to be anything short of a despicable and self aware evil.

However, despite the nearly tangible feelings of hatred she felt just then, she found she may have to abide it and suffer whatever will these men had for her-- if she couldn't stop this half orc, if he dragged her into the slick, onto the spikes, into the grasp of these warriors, than she, the half orc himself, and well... likely the city all together, were probably done for. All turned to ash and blood under the powerful force of Merasheel's disciples and the Empire's armies.

 

[ZeroSic]

Johnathan's darkvision gave him clear sight of the scene in front of him. His friend half covered in sewage, stabbed in the back by his own shield. Johnathan knew that Tom was beyond saving. If the wound and the blood loss didn't kill him, the infection that would follow will. The logical side of his mind told him to end his friend's suffering and get out of there. There's still a chance that their plan can still work. It would be easy for him to just toss the body into the sewage and tell his other friends how valiantly Tom rushed into battle and was cut down by a knight's blade.

When it came to his friends, Johnathan was not logical. He moved close to pull his friend out of the sewage and help him back to the others so he can get first aid. Johnathan tried his best to reassure Tom. though the shake in his voice couldn't be willed off entirely. "W-What are you worried about Tom? It's just a little flesh wound. We've gotten hurt way worse than this before. This is nothing! S-Stop crying you b-big baby. You'll be fine once we get you patched up." Johnathan followed it up by a very forced friendly chuckle. He picks up the still living Tom on his shoulders and tries to make it as fast as he can back to the others. He keeps conversation up with Tom trying to calm his friend down as well as not letting the young man slip into unconsciousness. "Y-You're not worried, are you Tom? You're the toughest among us! It'll take more than a splinter to put you down. W-when you'll be leading the war charge in the resistance, the Empire will be quaking in their boots!" Another forced chuckle.

It's very hard to keep both yourself and your friend calm while also trying to keep your voice down to prevent detection. However, John tries his best to do all that anyway as he moves back toward the group. Johnathan knew his friend couldn't be saved, but the half-elf refused to accept it and tried anyway.

 

[OrlandoWilde]

All too late, Kestrel had heard the creaking of floorboards. She instead, was completely focused on the bloody carnage outside, a dark cavalryman rode through the streets, wreaking havoc on the unfortunate Eastborne soldiers. Turning to look back inside the ruined house, she was greeted by an almost ethereal white-robed figure, his hands moving in intricate patterns as foreign and unnatural words spilled from his lips. Stunned, she could only stare at this strange man. Chanting filled Kestrel’s ears and her vision swam before her, almost as if she was trying to look at the mage through a wall of water. His hands began to move more rapidly, before finishing the movements with a flourish in her direction and releasing a flash of stark white light that left Kestrel momentarily blinded.

“Oh fuck me-“ was all she managed to groan, before six luminescent arcane rings launched towards her, restraining her form as she hit the floorboards with a heavy thud. Kestrel felt spears of pain shoot up her injured arm as it slammed against the rough wood, splinters digging their way into the fresh wound with the promise of infection and blood poisoning. Attempting to ignore the pain, she struggled against the restraints, feeling the cold metal biting into her skin as she flexed and shifted, but failing to find even a hint of give in the magical rings.

Fucking mages. Fucking hell. Shit. Fuck.

Kestrel watched as the mage dropped his hands and ceased his muttering, his thin lips drawing into a slight grimace. Cold, grey eyes locked with hers. Outside she could still hear the sounds of battle continuing, could hear a horn shrieking in the distance and the battle cries of who she could only guess was the large half-orc she had seen earlier. The mage was approaching slowly, hand reaching inside his star-embellished robes. He knelt carefully beside her, methodically checking each of the metal loops while Kestrel continued to growl and hurl obscenities.

“First choking, now you’re tying me up.” Kestrel chuckled humorlessly, spitting some blood onto the pristine white robes, “You sure are a kinky lot aren’t ya?” Kestrel watched as the blood seemed to slide off the robe, leaving not a single stain on its surface and her face twisted into a dissatisfied snarl, fangs bared. The mage regarded the empty show of aggression with disinterest and rose from his knees, staring down at the broken form beneath him.

“All shall fall to their knees before our great God Merasheel,” the mage stated impassively, face expressionless as he drew the dagger above his head.

The last thing Kestrel felt was a jolt of pain flash behind her eyes as the jewelled pommel of the wizard’s dagger collided with her skull in a sickening crack.

 

[meomeo]

What must it be like to be that dragon rider? Not only born a member of the dominant sex with that virility between his legs, but a noble lord too, with another massive, much more fearsome dragon between those armored thighs. The sight of that creature - straight out of folk legends - had Brigid shaken up real bad: its roar might have ripped up her eardrums, and she felt its fiery breath singing her face even though she stood two blocks away. Brigid couldn't wrap her head around the idea of one person wielding that much power. How insignificant must such a war be to him? Another day, another settlement crossed off the map. Eastborne, a bustling city with a beating heart, nothing but another piece on the chessboard. To be knocked over, its existence wiped off the land in another morning's work...

"Get moving girl!" Brigid lurched forward from a hard kick to her backside. With arms bound snugly behind her back, she lost her balance and stumbled to the rocky path. A sharp hot pain and a warm stickiness on her left cheek meant it must be split open. She was tugged to her feet by her hair, the squire using her blonde locks like a lasso. A push to her back, a harsh order to pick up her pace. She continued on to what they called the internment camp.

From far off the sounds of continued but scattered fighting within the city walls reached Brigid. She was by no means well-versed on matters of warfare and siege defense, but she knew a lost cause when she saw one. Against and army and a dragon like that, Isn't resistance a practice in futility? But when she thinks about it... going out on her feet and her own terms does sound a lick more dignified than this. This is the worst: being lead to slaughter like some farm animal.

"Stop dallying!" Another crash of a boot against her derriere rocked her hips. But this time she managed to stay on her feet. She shot a venomous look over her shoulder. That was all she could do, with her mouth gagged and hands securely bound.

Alas, Brigid, along with other former Eastborne residents trudging along the road to the internment camp, had no means to fight back. A mature and functioning society meant that not everyone had to be a warrior or a mage - for the city to run there had to be cooks and merchants, barkeeps and barmaids, healers and herbalists. When the city falls to the might of conquerors, the citizens become collateral. The history books will record whatever number of soldiers who fell defending Eastborne. But there wouldn't be a number attributed for civilians. Just defenseless peoples forgotten to the annals of history, there to be killed, raped, enslaved to the conquerors' whims.

And with that thought, Brigid found herself arriving at the internment camp. She instantly recognized it as the short knoll outside the city where a farmers' market used to be set up on weekends. It was a delightful place. One could smell the fresh produce from the sea and the soil from half a mile away. Lively bartering voices mingled with vendors calling out the bargains on offer. Children running amok amongst the stalls, pestering their parents for money for treats. Local amateur pantomime troupes would perform for the families. But now as Brigid's eyes swept across the hilltop she saw nothing but suffering. Mothers calling for their children. Children calling for their mothers. Crying, screaming, and weeping filled the air. Under her bare feet Brigid saw blood trampled into the soil. This... this is what the dragon rider has wrought upon these innocent people. Just because this chess piece on his board called Eastborne wasn't much to his liking.

 

[Black_Out]

Countless cities, towns, villages, and hamlets had been sacked or simply bullied into submission over the course of the decades long crusade of Merasheel's holy inquisition. From the very first settlement that the Empire toppled and on down the line, notes were taken and tactics were adjusted accordingly as different defenses and scenarios were dealt with and eventually overcome. Generations of soldiers had come and gone, but the notes remained and the Empire used them to evolve in how they approached each hold they came across.

New toys of warfare were introduced to handle some of the more troublesome fortifications that had been encountered over the years. Entirely new tactics and countless adjustments to existing ones were introduced, keeping the war machine of the Empire a well greased and constantly evolving operation. By the time their never ending march across the continent of Sadurmym had brought them to Eastborne, there wasn't much that caught the Empire by surprise or would leave them unprepared to handle.

Spies were an early investment that the Empire found to be quite reliable ways to swing the fortunes of war in their favor. Masters of illusion, infiltration, and deception had been rigorously selected and trained back in the Empires capital of Merasheel. From their youth they learned how to adopt different personas, how to reflect regional dialects in their speech, and how to blend in, or disappear when needed. It was a job that not everyone was meant for, and those responsible for the training only ever selected the very cream of the crop. They were sent out, scattered across the sweeping valleys, rolling plains, rugged mountains, and shores of Sadurmym. They had marks, settlements that they would arrive at, seamlessly integrate themselves into, and lie in wait for the Empires army to arrive.

Then of course their were the war magi. They operated in relative peace and quiet, stationed back with countless reinforcements that sat in wait nearly a mile removed from the front lines of combat. But they saw practically everything. Dozens of invisible floating eyes maneuvered through the city. They soared across the battlefield, ran along the streets and surveyed the siege as it unfolded, they even swept down through the sewers and hidden tunnels. They knew the city quite well, down to the names of the streets and the maze of tunnels, passages, and sewer lines that cut about beneath the city. Their spies had supplied them with the layout of Eastborne well before they had arrived at the gates along with abundant other details about the resistance that had been planned.

Outside of the city, packs of savage war dogs and their handlers were already being released into the sewer system of Eastborne. They were led into the twisting tunnels of the sewers by many of the spies that had infiltrated Eastborne years ago. They knew the paths well, and the hounds that paced their travels were excellent at picking out the scents of those they hunted that stood out to their keen noses from the reek of the sewers. John heard them as he tried to comfort and drag his wounded friend back to their hiding place. The echoes of their aggressive deep barks reverberated through the narrow tunnels of the sewers from seemingly every direction. Then he heard the screams of his friends, anguished cries of the girls he had left behind when he gave chase after Thom. Their pained and horrified yells pierced his ears along with the snarls and growls of the pack of war dogs that had found their way in to where they had taken shelter.

---------------------------​

Brigid was ruthlessly moved along by the sturdy young squire. There was no gentleness in his treatment or disposition towards her, only a cold uncaring demeanor that was determined to get this task done as swiftly as possible. Poles formed from chopped down and split trees sprouted up through what was once the busy and bustling farmers market. They had been driven into the ground like massive stakes, with four pairs of metal shackles set to each and every one of them. Most of them were empty, though they were slowly being filled as prisoner after prisoner were being shackled into place. It didn't take long for Brigid to notice the bright yellow letters and numbers painted on the tops of each pole.

Glimpses of white robed figures, decorated with the blue star of Merasheel caught Brigids eyes amidst all of the seemingly organized chaos that was taking was swirling around her. They moved with a seemingly disinterested demeanor through the field of raised poles that were still being put in place for the multitudes of prisoners yet to come. Well armed and solid looking guards dressed in heavy armor escorted their every step as they small bands moved to inspect each and every prisoner. A long twisted staff of white wood with a blue sphere perched on the top of each was held outward by the hand of every robed individual. The blue spheres were lowered, presented towards every shackled captive they came across. The white robed Inquistors looked towards the blue globe on the top of the staves they wielded. Then after a minute they moved along to the next in line and repeated their silent judgement.

Shove after push found her moved along, a kick in her ass and lift by her long tangled brown hair pulled her back up to her feet when she stumbled. With one last thrust of his hands across the frail and petite herbalists shoulders, Brigid was sent sprawling out onto the ground before an unoccupied pole. The squire grabbed up a set of shackles and soon was slapping them around Brigids ankles, making sure they were closed painfully tight around her. His eyes fell on her with a sheen of hatred and contempt for having to even deal with her and miss the opportunity to be in the battle by the side of the knight he dutifully served. "Don't get any bright ideas, you skinny fucking bitch." He snarled towards her as he gave her one swift boot into her ribs to drive the point of his words home. He left her then, gasping for air, sprawled out on the dirt laden ground of the market, but not before he snorted and then spat on her.

Guards dressed in lesser sorts of armor, mostly of blue dyed leather or heavy white stained chain patrolled the grounds of the prisoner camp. Helping to escort and control new lines of captives that were being drawn in from the front lines. Cavalry trotted about the place, intermingled with the patrolling guards and the robed Inquisitors that stopped to inspect each shackled prisoner. At one such stop that was on the borders of Brigids field of view the orb glowed a bright blue. It was to far away to see exactly what was happening, but Brigid could tell it was some man they had stopped to press the staff towards.

Once the ball lit up the Inquisitor stepped aside and the stout warriors escorting him moved in on the defenseless man. Stomping boots, hard kicks, and smacks with what looked like steel rods descended on the barely visible mans body. They lingered there for a few minutes long after the short barrage of blows had driven the mans cries into silence. She could see arms being drawn out, steel rods crashing down and impacting the mans hands, leaving them a mangled mess that Brigid was fortunate enough to not truly see in any detail. Crippled and unconscious after a handful of minutes they left the poor sod before walking off to the next in line.

It was some half hour later when lonely and beaten Brigid finally found herself in the company of another. A rickety wooden cart, probably that once belonged to a local farmer was drawn by a mule who was led by a pair of soldiers that looked like they were fresh off the battle field. Their armor and the blue cloth that adorned them were washed with fresh crimson stains of blood. One man walked with a slight limp, his helmet off and tucked under his arm. He was grizzly mess. Thick beard and speckles of blood dotted his worn features. Beyond the limp, him and his companion who was another bulky knight that kept his helmet on seemed to be in decent health, and simply just suffering from fatigue.

"Hey you, boy!" The gnarled faced knight barked out as they approached the pole upon which Brigid had been left bound too. "Get over here and take this horned bitch off our hands!" As the words left his lips the soldier dropped the lead of rope that fitted around the mules harness and marched straight off and away from the prisoner camp. Quickly a pair of men decked out in the blue stained leather garb of the prison guards scurried over to inspect the cart and the form of Kestrel that was left bound, gagged, and unresponsive in the back of the meager carts hold. They dragged her out, tossed her to the ground and quickly worked the shackles in place around her ankles.

"What are you looking at?!" One of the guards sharp tongues remarked towards Brigid as he turned on her. His hand lifted up and the back of his palm smacked across the young girls face before he turned to help finish making sure that Kestrels shackles were secured, gag was tight, and the rope binding her wrists behind her back was properly knotted. Before they left, a simple wooden bowl was laid upon the ground and filled with water from a gourd. "There, have a drink, act up and we'll take that away and leave ya to cook in tha sun!" The obviously out of shape guard bellowed at Brigid. "Behave, and you'll git some bread latah!" Before finally turning away, departing with his cohort and leaving the two to alone to get acquainted.

---------------------------​

 

[ZeroSic]

Johnathan's heart sank as he heard the screams of his friends. He was stupid. He should have let Tom go and secure the gate to their cellar basement. That would have been smart but no... he couldn't abandon his friend. Now he had to pay the price of valuing the lives of one over the lives of many He had turned the well fortified and hidden basement into a tomb. He looked back to Tom to only see more death. He had to do something anything! He left the still warm body of Tom on the ground and said, "I'm sorry. I couldn't save you." He gripped his weapon in two hands and made a mad dash towards the screams. He was attacked by a few more dogs along the way but he made quick work of them with swift and precise swings at their vitals. He used his breast plate to his advantage, blocking the bites and even cracking a few teeth.

Johnathan finds himself back at the hideout. The screams and been reduced to groans and moans. The barks and snarls are louder than ever. The half-elf blacksmith sees red in his eyes, both metaphorically and literally. Lets out war cry and kicks, bashes and breaks every opposing force in his side. Multiple inner voices scream at him for vengeance and berate him for being as stupid as he was. He should have left. He should have left the city with his friends. He should have told them to abandon everything and run. But... how could they do that? How could they leave the place they grew up in behind? How could they just leave all the memories behind to be soiled by the war machine? How could they just run away from their problems just like that and for how long could they keep running before the ruthless advance of the empire caught up to them?

Johnathan's armor absorbed most of the war dog's onslaught. His mind was too flooded with all sorts of thoughts and emotions to feel the cuts and serrations he had sustained. He wove, ducked, misdirected and struck down all enemies before him. Finally he dropped his weapon. The cellar was strewn with corpses and all was silent save for the still distant barks coming from the sewers. His eyes scanned the red room looking for any signs of life. His eyes meet the cold lifeless gazes of the three girls. His brain, registering each gruesome detail.

He walked over to Jill, the blonde hair she had always kept tidy was stained and messy. The sickening red rope like structure of intestines stare at John. Heather lies sprawled on the floor, teeth clenched and completely mangled limbs. Slumped against a wall is Samantha, missing a leg and a large hole where are jugular used to be. Johnathan closes each of their eyes and just stands in the middle of the carnage, silent and still. The grip on his weapon tightened. He securely shut the cellar door and replaced his breastplate with plate mail. By this time the dogs from the sewers were barking at the secured door and Johnathan could hear the sounds of Imperial soldiers behind the dog. His grip on the his weapon tightened and while a Molotov was secure on his belt. He snarled and mumbled through gritted teeth, "Come on. I'll kill every last one of you."

 

[OrlandoWilde]

Pain.

As Kestrel slowly came to consciousness, the first thing that caught her attention was the pain; a pounding in her head like that of a thousand war drums thumping out a slow but agonising rhythm. Her nose felt broken and she could taste the coppery tang of the blood that had run down the back of her throat while she was knocked insensate, probably sitting in her stomach or perhaps lungs now. Overall, it hadn’t been the best of days.

Guess it’s time to rise and shine.

Kestrel’s hand found the rough surface below and she forced her eyes open to see the bloodstained dirt below, her arm still seemingly releasing a steady flow of deep crimson liquid to be soaked up by the hungry soil, maybe it could grow something pretty. Prettier than the likely sorry state of her face at the moment. Wouldn’t be particularly hard.
She braced herself as she began to push herself up into a sitting position. Every agonisingly slow movement caused her vision to swim and waves of nausea wracked her body. She squeezed her eyes shut as the sounds of moans and sobs filtered their way into her slowly returning consciousness. Kestrel quietly noted to herself that she probably wouldn’t like what she’d see when she looked up. She was right.

As she leaned back against the pole behind her, she saw the internment camp spread out before her. There stood a forest of wooden poles, some with battered and bruised Eastborne residents shackled to them, others waiting in anticipation for another unfortunate soul to be captured and detained. She also noticed each pole had a different combination of letters and numbers painted on top in bright yellow and regarded them with a keen interest. Empire soldiers milled around the area, which appeared to have been some kind of market, some stole quick glances at Kestrel, others openly glared at her in disgust. A few were walking around in the same blue-starred robes as the mage she had encountered earlier, each carrying a strange blue-orb topped staff.

Kestrel’s legs were aching, and she tried to extend her them out in front of her, but she felt metal bite into her skin as the shackles around ankles prevented any significant movement, forcing her to sit with her legs folded awkwardly underneath her. Glancing down at the shackles, she began to curse heavily, her words muffled by the gag in her mouth. Her long fingers fumbled with the fabric before managing to loosen it enough to spit out, though her words were not much clearer, her voice affected by a heavy dialect and guttural fiendish tones that were thickened by anger.

“You milk-drinking, bastard sons of syphilis-ridden wenches, what I wouldn’t give to watch you all keelhauled under my boat. You soft-cocked strumpets, I’ll-”

Her tirade was interrupted by a violent coughing fit, as she sprayed the blood that had settled in her lungs from the broken nose all over the ground.

“Fuck!” she growled as her lungs burned and head pounded even harder.

Kestrel threw herself back against the pole, exhausted, dragging in rasping breaths as she blearily watched the soldiers bringing in another civilian. This one was a middle-aged man, sobbing and defeated. Kestrel could have sworn he looked familiar, but instead of having a closer look, she glanced away and shook her hair out, catching sight of a bowl of water nearby, as well as another captive. She turned towards the young woman who was seemingly shackled to the same pole. The woman was smaller than Kestrel and her dirty-blonde hair reached down to the middle of her back.

“Hey, pole buddy, if you don’t mind, I’d really appreciate some of that water right about now.” Kestrel jutted her chin towards the bowl, snarling as another bolt of pain shot through her skull.

“I’d also ask if you had anything for this gaping wound I have on my arm, but I think that’s pretty low in the list of things that may kill me at the moment.” Kestrel quipped, running her tongue along each of her bloodied teeth as she awaited her response, taking extra care around each sharp fang as she checked for any missing teeth.

 

[meomeo]

Brigid has not had it easy by any means of the imagination - a destitute childhood on the streets, living under the roof of an abusive master, and most recently incarcerated on trumped up charges. If there is one thing young Brigid had mastered (apart from the art of herbal medicine-making), it’s survival under adversity. Take a deep breath, focus on her next task, persevere and keep going. Words to swear by to remain sane in this ruthless world.

But this... camp. This is a whole ‘nother level of suffering. This is Brigid’s most indomitable foe yet... the inevitability of death.

Brigid shut her eyes to preserve her sanity from the gruesome sights... but the maker did not confer on humans (or as far as she knew - any other race) the ability to willy-nilly shut off one’s ability to hear. The gut-wrenching sounds of cries, screams, and moans assaulted her. Driving her insane. The midday sun bore down on her mercilessly, determined to roast her alive if the Empire did not care to finish the job. Her many wounds itched, with no way to scratch them. Her joints continued to be contorted into impossible angles by the tight shackles.

“Hey, pole buddy, if you don’t mind, I’d really appreciate some of that water right about now.”
​

Brigid’s eyes opened a slit as she turned to the source of the voice. Blurrily, she took in the horned, scarred, and badly battered ‘pole buddy’ of hers. Her first impression was... boy, the Empire sure did a thorough job on this one. They might as well have re-arranged her face. As for her request for her bowl of water - Brigid hadn’t exactly touched it herself. She wasn’t keen on debasing herself by drinking off the floor like some farm animal. She is about to die and her thirst is the last of her problems. But to each their own. With a sweep of her feet, Brigid nudged the bowl across the dirt ground. A few drops swilled over before the bowl came to a stop near the other girl’s waist.

Brigid was about to close her eyes once more when a large swarthy shadow fell over the both of them. The greasy bodily scent was eerily familiar - and a second later the voice confirmed it. Rhodri - the prison guard - now deked out in Empire garbs. A spy for the Empire... not that Brigid managed to come to that conclusion immediately amidst her surge of rage and surprise.

“Well well well... looked like the wee lil herbalist managed to make it out in one piece. And made yourself a new dyke friend already? A right lit slut you are, arencha?” He taunted, gleefully.

 

[Alvis Alendran]

The snap of a whip caught his attention for a moment, sparing a glance back as he saw that someone ahd come in support of his efforts. It seemed some other people that had been trapped in the city had some spine to them after all, had come to defend themselves, and what was theirs. He turned his attention back to the foe he was closing in on.

Magic. It nearly always came down to magic. Hrothgar felt his feet shifting under him from the spell effect, knowing that slicking the grtound like that would make a great deal of his momentum useless against a pike wall like the one facing him. Too easy to negate his superior weight this way. There was a simmering fury that brewed within him, called for release, but he also knew that doing so would leave him too exposed with a mage in play. He crouched low, letting the slickness of the strett carry him, sliding forward at his foes. He had a wicked grin on his face as he tossed the corpse that had shielded him from the arrows. It wasn't the best throw he could have made, but it was serving it's purpose. It distracted some of the pike men, makinghte wall waver. Sliding along the road, he used the haft of his axe to push the pair of pikes before him over his advance, letting him come on still.

He wasn't having it all hsi own way. Several of hte men saw what he was doing, and shifted their of attack, jabbing with the long weapons. Points of pain along his arms and shoulder showedthat they landed several hits, though he was moving fast enough that they hadn't landed truly telling blows. His slide took him into the pack, and he rose with a bellowing roar of fury. Men scattered from him, and he saw the look of startled surpise on the face of the mage. Grease was a spell that had ended the fight with many a warrior, of that Hrothgar had no doubt, but it wasn't the first, or even the tenth time he'd encountered it. His people had warred with elves since time immemorial, who favoured magic in their wars. His clan had learned it's lessons in the brutal crucible of conflict.

Hrothgar rampaged among the pikemen, their long weapons useless at this range, scrabbling back fro the half-orc for their sidearms, but the man gave them no chance, and certainly no quarter. As the mage began to withdraw, Hrothgar reched down and siezed on one of the pikes. Not a weapon made to be thrown easily in most cases, but when snapped cleanly to leave only a few feet below the head, it would serve. He'd thrown worse weapons. Casting the weapon at the mage with all his might, he tok stock of the situation. They were still in a burning city, and enemies were everwhere. But he had to withdraw, keep moving, beofre they managed to bring further reinforcements down on him.

He jogged back towards the woman that had aided him.
"My thanks! We should withdraw to elsewhere!" he suggested, not slowing his pace, seeking to withdraw further into the city proper, hoping to remain on the edge of the conflict where he might serve some aid, but not encounter the most hardened of forces.

 

[Black_Out]

The smoke that billowed up and formed lazily drifting clouds of ashen grey haze could easily be seen from the encampment of prisoners that was situated on the outskirts of the city proper. Nestled down in the slight dip of a valley as it were, the sounds of war were seemingly funneled by the lands topography through the growing numbers of prisoners. The distant explosive booms, the rattling of steel, and the cries of men and women engaged in that fierce battle mingled with the more prevalent sounds of distress of the shackled, beaten, and tortured pole bound captives within the make shift prison camp. Reinforcements to vast to count lingered on the flattened hilltop plateaus that surrounded the internment camp, waiting for their orders to descend into the fray. It was obvious that the forces of the Empire intended to make an example out of Eastborne for their refusal to bend to the Empires will and submit themselves to their Inquisition.

Rhodri turned his gaze out towards the distant chaos and whistled through his uneven teeth. "Ainit a damn shame ya know. Shulda jus opin them gates up and lettem in. Now tha whole damn city gonna be burnt to tha fukin grund." He turned back towards the pair of pole buddies and grinned towards them both with his crooked gapped tooth smile. "Na where's dat hot little cell mate o yours?" His taunt was directed towards Brigid as he gave her tush a prod with the tip of his sturdy leather boot. "Sha didn't mak it out? Sha wouda been a right fine fuck." He gave a chortled chuckle as he clasped his sides to control his outburst of laughter.

His gaze then swung over to Kestrel and without much more of a warning then the simple hate filled sneer of his lips and narrowing of his eyes upon the tiefling he lashed out with his boot and gave her a solid kick in her gut. "Don'cha fukin look it me, ya bloody fuckin fiend bitch!" He snarled towards her as he settled his foot next to the wooden bowl of water. With a little nudge of his foot he drew the bowl of water away from Kestrels reach and returned his attention towards Brigid. Rhodri dropped down to a single knee as he reached out and grasped her firmly by the chin and forced her face to look towards his. "I know ya ain't no mage, but ya new lova ere." He cringed sarcastically as he thumbed back towards Kestrel. "Tha Inquisitors thay don take kind to her sort, not one bit."

Rhodri shifted his hand upward and grasped the wooden gag that was wedged in Brigid's mouth. "But tell ya wat, slut, ya do me cock propah wit those little lips of yours and I'll puts a good word in for ya." He gave a firm tug, yanking the bit out of her mouth before he moved his hand to wrap about the back of her head. "Ya best be gentle, or I tell em ya a fucking mage, ya don't wan that, do ya?"

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The invisible floating form of the very same wizard that Kestrel had briefly encountered in the abandoned home watched undetected from his lofty perch. His arms remained folded about his pristine and immaculate white robes that were adorned with swirling patterns of the blue star of Merasheel. His calculating grey eyes watched with keen interest as the duo of Hrothgar and Flora laid the assembled pike men low. There was a definitive scowl that worked across his thin lips as he watched Hrothgar put the sundered pole arms deadly tip through the chest of the young unfortunate mage. Merasheel had a way of weeding out the unworthy, and he never questioned his almighty teachings, especially where they concerned vengeance.

High overhead a brilliant blue sparkling star shaped light that had no physical mass and existed solely as energy was spun into being by an his unknown hidden presence, The bright blue star hovered over Hrothgar and Flora like a beacon as the pair was just beginning to withdraw from the front lines at the half orcs insistence. It's unmistakable presence in the sky served both as a warning and a summons for the forces of the Empire. Nearby commanders that were making their way towards the sounding of the horn took note and kept and at once pulled back, keeping their numbers a safe distance from the beacons glow. Other, far more seasoned and talented members of the Empires forces though were drawn towards its presence as it followed the pair of combatants. Even if they split, the star would divide itself into two and tail along after them, relentlessly.

From atop the saddle of the dragon he was mounted upon the hooked and helmed head of Sir Fyndrake looked towards the call to arms. He let out a short huff of breath as he tugged powerfully upon the reins of chain that were lashed around the dragons serpentine head and neck. The deep crimson scaled beast turned and let out a roar as its sweeping tail cracked against the wooden walls of a nearby shop that was slowly burning towards the ground and sent the front of the store collapsing in on itself. Swift and lengthy strides of the red wingless dragon quickly closed the distance between itself and the hovering star that trailed after Hrothgar and Flora. As beast and rider neared the reins were pulled and the dragons course shifted slightly as they turned down a road that ran parallel with the beacons position.

The row of buildings was all that separated the dragon and its rider from the sight lines of the elf and half orc as it surged past the floating blue star that persistently marked their location. It's gait altered just enough as Fyndrake tugged on the reins as the dragon neared the intersection where they would turn the corner to abruptly greet the pair before they could withdraw from the front lines. It was a fearsome sight to behold as the highly decorated and imposing knight that was easily equal to Hrothgars mass sat atop the beast with his shield raised and one hand on the rein of chains that led the crimson hued dragon around the corner to meet them. There was smoke rising in wisps from its flared nostrils, but that wasn't quite the immediate threat as the heavily scaled dragon tore its claws into the ground and anchored its weight, snapping its hips about as its fearsomely destructive tail cracked through the air like a titans whip towards the duo.

---------------------------------------------------------------​

The barking grew louder from the other side of the secured cellars opening into the sewers where the Empires men had gathered to investigate the source of alarm. Several dogs snarled and bared their fangs at the doorway as they aggressively barked while their hair rose up and stood on its ends. The tips of spears jabbed at the door, probing at it and causing the door to jolt slightly as some of the soldiers gathered nearby. "Let's kick it in and let tha mutts at em!" One of the men snorted out after giving the door a solid poke with the blunt end of his spear. "They look hungrah." He spoke with a sadistic laugh that some of the others joined in with.

"It could be trapped." A wiry man clad in blackened polished leathers that were reinforced with dull black studs spoke from the shadows. "You men move along, keep scouring the sewers, I'll handle this one." HIs ebony hooded features turned to look towards the doorway as he quietly inspected the structure while the others worked to gather up the eager hounds and convince them to move on.

Johnathan never really new how it happened as the assassin silently materialized seemingly out of thin air behind him. The only way he knew he was there was when that mans pair of thin needle point dagger sank into the gaps of his armor. They were precise in the locations of their surprise impalements, hitting at pressure points that the silent and swift killer was well versed in. They caused muscles to seize and grow rigid as the blades twisted deep into the unsuspecting back of Johnathan. He leaned close to his targets ear and murmured a whisper that was barely audible over the din of barking dogs that were departing. "Looks like your friends all died, so I'll be merciful, and let you live, so long as you can survive the poison." With a swift kick of his black studded boot the assassin kicked the weapon out of Johnathan's numbed grasping hands.

 

[ZeroSic]

Johnathan gritted his teeth. Maybe it was the elvish blood or the knowledge that everything he swore to protect was dead and decimated or maybe it was the berserker like fury that was burning inside of him. His armor felt too heavy and it felt like tiny needles were pricking him all over his body. He stares daggers at the assassin. Then, with a feat of will power, Johanathan manages to stand. He stays up for less than a second before the poison overpowers him and he falls back down to the ground with a loud clang. He grits his teeth and only manages to spit out, "I HATE YOU"

 

[OrlandoWilde]

With the water now within her reach, Kestrel began to rinse the blood out of her mouth and scrub the grime from her face. The water was refreshing and a welcome reprieve from the sweltering heat of the burning city. As she hunched over the small bowl, she eyed another guard swaggering towards them, self-assured and as smug as a dog with two tails. His face cracked open in a crooked toothed grin as he stared down at the young blonde woman.

Kestrel watched their interaction intently, the two seeming to at least share a passing knowledge of each other, though their relationship seemed nothing more than one between a predator and their prey. The conversation seemed to be about another woman who died in the siege, and the guard's desire to fuck said woman. He stared at the bound woman in front of him, looking her up and down like he was appraising a fine cut of meat in a butchers shop, poking and prodding all the while. Kestrel eyes narrowed as she couldn't help but sneer at the repulsive display before her.

"Don'cha fukin look it me, ya bloody fuckin fiend bitch!"

Without warning, a foot shot out and collided with Kestrel's stomach, emptying her lungs of breath with a wheeze as she collapsed to the ground doubled over. The tirade of desperate sexual intimidation continued as Kestrel struggled to push herself back to a sitting position.

Eventually, she managed to sit up to see the guard now grabbing the hair of the young lady, beginning to force her to perform what Kestrel could only imagine would be one of a long list of abhorrent acts he had divised over the last few minutes. Kestrel felt her spine begin to stiffen and she couldn't help but react on instinct alone.

"Hey. Rockbiter. How about you pick on someone your own size? And by that, I mean ball size. I'm sure there's someone else around this camp who's pathetic enough that the only way they could lose their virginity is to pull a stunt like this." Kestrel panted, making sure to maintain unwavering eye contact.

 

[meomeo]

There is no fathoming the depths of depravity and malevolence Rhodri would stoop down to. Somehow, amidst this sea of suffering, this camp of cries, and beholding two bloodied, battered women with dirt caked over their bodies and pus oozing out of their wounds... the parting of his robes revealed a hardened orc cock. Sexual arousal from others’ misery. Such unbridled evil.

His hands roughly gripped Brigid’s head of hair. His bulbous tip grazed her closed lips. The orc musk made Brigid nauseous and sick. She tasted bile at the back of her mouth...

There is no going out with dignity.

And then Rhodri tied her submission to her ‘pole-buddy’s’ fate. It seems everything about the spy must involve some iteration of threat or coercion or intimidation. Why even bother? It’s not like I have a say in this. She glanced sideways towards the amply-tattooed woman. She is nothing to Brigid: just another nameless co-victim, chewed and spit out by the Empire’s war machine. But Brigid still possessed a basic modicum of compassion. Besides, I’m dead soon anyways.

He took the slight parting of her lips as a hearty invitation to enter. Brigid was at once overwhelmed by the hideous swamp green prick. The girth. The size. The stench.

This is not me.

A sharp burning on her scalp was followed by an overbearing sensation of a massive object shoved down her throat. She let out an agonised cry and a gagged gurgle. But it only heralded the beginning. With helpless horror, Brigid realised he was wrapping her hair around his knuckles - like one would do with horse’s reins - and then began to pump her head and her face on his manhood. Unimaginable pain erupted in her neck, her jaw, her throat, her head... but nothing hurt more than the wound to her pride. A face fucking. This was more than humiliating, this was de-humanising.

This is not me.

Her sanity was preserved thanks to the unlikely comradeship from the fanged woman in the form of her taunts. And the fact that he finished rather quickly - the cock started going limp soon as it emptied his salty jizz into her throat. And Brigid’s trump card... my ultimate victory was ensured all along.

When Rhodri finally let go of her, leaving Brigid doubled up - heaving and spluttering his fresh seed into the mud. But between spats of orc cum, Brigid croaked, “You’re fucking dead, you know? You sick fuck. You didn’t even realize you were drinking up my poison all these weeks... do you? All those potions. You’ll start with cramps in ‘bout two weeks... then you’ll begin shitting fresh blood... you gonna throw up everything you eat... And the best part? You won’t be able to get your pathetic prick hard anymore. I think my mouth is probably the last thing you ever get to fuck. And then... and then you’ll die. I... I took you down with me...”

The more she spoke the funnier this whole ordeal is to her. And she began to wheeze and laugh... looking up gaily at the half-orc with crazed eyes and cum leaking out the corners of her lips.

“Now do your worst, you fuck.”