Fantasy RPG Forum - Standing Trials

What had once been a rather notable figure across Rynmere – good or bad depending on whom you asked and what day it was – now seemed to be possessed. With literal fiery eyes glowing in the faint dawn of the last battle, something began to take hold that day. It was something that would change the course of her life and potentially Rynmere’s history. A demon had been unleashed on Idalos by an Immortal so twisted that it had not thought twice to convert a mortal into a possessed monster. Syroa had played her role, much to her own satisfaction no less, with pure perfection. Zvezdana would forever be cursed as a villain and demon, possessed by something that had been incarnated from the rage fire that burned deep within her soul.

Her face split in two with a hungry growl as two heads exploded forth. Their mouths spewed fire as their glowing red eyes began to focus on the world around it. They were dressed in bleeding muscle, held together by off-white sinews of ligaments. Their teeth were sharp and strong enough to contain the furnace that boiled up from their esophagi. The loose skin from her limps sloughed towards the floor as the muscled elongated and grew thicker, popping skin off in areas where it became too tight. Her paws were the tendon attachments to the thick muscles that strained during the transformation, holding her growing body off the ground. The former petite body bulked up as the shoulders grew to almost three times their size, curved forward while her waist drew upwards and backwards. Ligaments held tight back muscles to the ribcage. A whip-like tail stretched backwards from her spine. Black spines grew from where her hair used to be. A 700-pound, 11-foot long from nose to tip of tail, and 5-foot tall at the shoulders monster stood where a Venoran lady once cowered.

With blood dripped from every muscle and sinew on it’s body, the beast turn on the soldier that stood petrified in the remnants of the tent. He did not have time to call out when the beast lunged at him, pinning him to the ground. One head fastened its jaws around the neck of the armored soldier while the other pulled at the forearm of his right arm. Together, with opposite forces, the beast ripped the man’s arm clean away from his shoulder. Arterial spray joined the already bloodied carpets. The beast feasted on metal, cloth, and flesh, the fires of its mouth searing bone as the pieces went down.

Once the first meal had been completed, plumes of smoke began to rise out of holes in the area between its shoulder blades. An acrid, burning flesh smell began to permeate the area as the smoke grew thicker. The beast could be compared to a crematorium, where bodies went in and ash came out. Since the bodies never truly made it into the stomach, the demon would be insatiable for flesh. The first meal had only started the fires. Now, it craved more.

There were no souls left in the area to feast on as the dragon fire had scattered them. Those that had some heart fled to the city both for the safety of the walls and buildings and to fight for the cause they believed in. Others ran in the opposite direction, scared by the Warrick Jacadons that flew overhead. A cry from one of these beasts drew the attention of the creature. It watched as it flew towards the city. The demon’s gaze lowered onto the city. It smelled fresher blood from that direction, and the sounds of screams made its belly rumble.

It was time to feast.
The demon came barreling up through the gates into the city. It pushed through the soldiers that were running into the city, unaware that some were being trampled to death under its hefty paws. It had felt a draw towards the city, as if something very tasty was meant to be eaten. Was this the seed of rage that it had come from? Was there someone within the gates that required a tortuous death? Once it was in Lowtown, it stopped. The smell of blood was intoxicating to it. Both heads immediately turned to the ground, sniffing for fresher meat. The soldiers that it had run passed had stopped due to fear, injury, or to regroup to attack the unknown beast. One brave, but reckless, bastard elected to run up to it with spear in hand. The point of the weapon sliced the right shoulder of the creature. Ears perked up and both heads rotated to fixate its gaze on its prey. One head growled while the other licked its teeth with a fire-coated tongue. The demon’s tail snapped forward, shattering the wooden pole-arm like a toothpick. The laceration had already begun to heal.

A moment passed and blood began to pump out of the soldier’s neck while one head chewed hungrily on his head. The other grabbed the man by the waist, shaking the limp body like a ragdoll. Men went screaming the way they had come. The acrid smell of burning flesh came fresh as the body was devoured. Once its meal was finished, the demon dashed down another alley after some screaming woman that had been trying to escape out the gate for safety. Her cries for help fell on deaf ears. She was knocked to the ground and her belly was eviscerated as each head took large bites of intestines from her belly. The fires cauterized and boiled blood within her abdomen and she died an incredibly painful death as her body went into shock. Another woman fell to the hellhound.

With each innocent person that fell, the beast grew hungrier and more enraged. Its howls could be heard throughout the city and the carnage it left behind trailed like the black smoke that poured out of its back. Even the streets took damage as the cobblestone was not used to that amount of weight up and down the streets. Soldiers – representing Cassander and Qe’Dreki – fell to the demon’s whims. It had no preference on who died. As long as its mouth was full, it cared not. It simply lusted for flesh and desired blood.

A bloodcurdling howl left the beasts’ mouths in hopes that all of Andaris City would know that it was hear, feasting on its people.

A lone Volarean rose up and over the city. A shadow over the sun with wings spread. It flapped with a few graceful movements before suddenly it ducked and started to spiral, faster and faster down as though out of control. Careening it swooped over the main square in front of the gate, where the battering ram pit itself against the combined forces of the Iron Hand and everyone else who’d been gathered. Wings clipped the wall and the Volarean struggled to rise before tumbling and dropping to the decimated market square of Low-Town. A scream rose from the creature beyond the gates and the battering ram hit harder against the wall. A rush of Qe’Dreki footmen flooded out from broken husks of houses and ran forward.

Grapples scraped against the wall as they were thrown and caught and the Qe’Dreki began to scale the walls.

(So sorry for the wait, guys. My writing mojo has been less inventive and inspiring than a potato. )

The battle had begun to rage on. The Qe'Dreki, despite the death of Veljorn and very likely the departing of Zvezdana, had raged onward and had rained down arrows on the city. Alistair questioned the intention of the rebels to pursue this war without their King and General, imagining that either Yoreth Blackwood or Marcus Krome wished to reign as King instead. Now, however, was not the time for political intrigue but rather for the leadership of his troops. Venora and Andaris had supported King Cassander and the loyalists in defending the city, and the man would have to prove his worth to his house and its rivals.

He commanded his troops with a similar goal to Lord Andaris, seeking to annihilate the remnants of the Qe'Dreki. Alistair had commanded his unit to pursue smaller groups and cast down those who had scaled the walls. On his mark, they drew their longbows, firing back at the men from a distance and preventing many of their forces from descending from the height of the wall to the city below. As the battering ram crashed against the gates, he prepared his units into a defensive formation.

The slave of his cousin, Faith, arrived at the scene. Alistair greeted her with a slight nod. The man was wearing armor with the crest of Venora laid against his breastplate. He had little skill with a blade, but he wielded one regardless, prepared to defend himself with what physical prowess he possessed. The slave was of course not so extravagantly armored or as properly armed, but her presence here was one of comfort as the man had learned to trust her loyalty since the mission to Krome.

"You can be of help," he replied to her. The man spoke properly and with the sort of tongue befitting of a nobleman. He spoke like a leader rather than typically where he was willing to indulge her in conversation. His eyes were cold and fierce. "Everyone can be of help," he replied. "You . . . hm." He quirked his brow. "Do you like to fight?" he asked. He hadn't really witnessed much of her actions during the assault by the Coven. He knew that she and Elyna survived the attack, but whether or not Faith participated actively was an unknown. It was likely that they were merely defended by Marcus' men.

"If you're willing to battle," he began, "then I have need of you. I'm going to go forward with a retinue and slay some of the foes descending from the walls. We'll be avoiding the gate in-case they break through and spill in. Are you prepared for such a thing?"

“Steady! Hold your positions!” Yelled Peake, as the first enemy troops penetrated the gates.

One, two, three, four, five dozens came through, making their way forward with fierce yells, carrying their weapons as if they were carrying bombs, eager to destroy the enemy with such zeal it was almost scary. They certainly did not seem like men with a low morale for the loss of their leader Veljorn. As they made their way through the various fortifications and obstacles, placed not to delay or halt, but instead to serve as obstacles for any sort of efficient formation. As a further insurance, it served to greatly hinder the advance of possible cavalry, which would be a fatal counter to the Iron Hand’s formation. This way, as they circled around the barricades and makeshift hedgehogs splattered the first 35 yards between the gates and the Iron Hand personnel, their order was lost, and their efficiency was drastically reduced.

This became rather apparent as the defensive fire from the archers annihilated the first wave with little to no effort, either killed or disabled from the hailstorm of projectiles. Five, four, three, two dozens were gone in a few thrills, the rest either dropping their weapons and trying to rout with no success – either shot down by the Iron Hand or their own comrades – or somehow making it to the first line of defense. Peake himself, sweating profusely under his armor and the two suns of Saun, got a taste of the combat, as whatever remained of a crippled soldier arrived by the formation. An arrow was lodged deep in his knee, something that inspired a few nervous giggles in the nearby knights as if there was a joke hidden in that situation, before a pike man crippled his opposite leg, to which the Qe’Dreki fell on his knees at the mercy of the Knights. Peake couldn’t help but feel a bit sorry for the man, the one of the very few that made it that far, unaware that his comrades had fallen in the arrow storm or that had routed for their lives, leaving truly loyal soldiers like him alone in their death.

Pity left aside, Peake stepped forward and rotated his wrist, gaining momentum with his morning star before bringing it mercilessly upon the top of the enemy’s head. Everything inside the padded coif was squished violently, much to the pleasure of the nearest Knights that cheered for the repelled enemy wave. Peake, although having delivered the blow, felt nothing but disgust for said praise for death.
“Good work! Now we—“ Peake said as he returned to his original position, but as he turned around an arrow struck him in the chest. Thankfully for him, metallic breastplates were designed as a protection against armor, and despite the force of the arrow and lodging itself in his chest, Peake was unharmed. Many soldiers beside him were not as lucky.

Raising his head, as his helmet limited his vertical vision greatly, Peake saw what he had been fearing: the walls were slowly being overrun with the enemy. What was first a single arrow turned into a dozen soon enough, the suppressing fire taking out a few of the Iron Hand soldier present in the square. Even further, beside the scattered archers that fired from above, Qe’Dreki soldiers were descending the walls with ropes at the same time as what appeared to be slaves were sent through the gates. An effective strategy, which forced the defenders to remain busy trying to survive the arrows while the slaves were sent to a guaranteed death while the Qe’Dreki took control of the walls. At this rhythm and this sound strategy, the Iron Hand would either take great casualties or would be forced to fall back, which would mean the free entrance of the enemy forces in Mid-Town.

The situation was turning dire, and Peake lamented that the plan to set Low-town on fire was ultimately denied by the leadership, as these dire situations would’ve been avoided. Not everyone was ready to sacrifice what needed to be burned, and that could easily tip the scales of the war. Some knights perished under the arrows, only the high ranking officials being donned with armors, and so the casualties came through. Peake needed to organize a counter-attack and regain control of the plaza.
“Two on two shield formations, now! Pikemen, hold the enemy!” As soon as Peake gave the order, the formations came through, one soldier placing their tower shield vertically as their partner placed it on top of them at an angle, defending both of them while also allowing them to see the incoming enemy. Rushing forward was not necessary, not currently, as the walls were still under enemy control. As everyone shifted, the many knights wounded by the arrows were exposed in the plaza, Peake glancing over his shoulder at the many men and women that laid either dead or in pain. “Evacuate the wounded, away from enemy reach!”

Obviously, the sounds of battle sometimes muffled Peake’s voice, but thankfully every nearby Knight repeated his words to spread it to the distant units, effectively transmitting the information. The waves of slaves, either rushing in naked or with some ragged clothes and makeshift weapons, began reaching the formation, the pikemen holding them back for the moment. This needed to stop, and soon.
“Captain!” Peake said to his partner, with whom he held formation. From below a woman looked at him, her nose broken and her eyes wide open due to the pressure. Peake recognized her as the one he had assaulted days before, that nose being something he had caused. It was sad to find her trapped in this war as well – it made Peake feel guilty. Nonetheless, duty was duty, and guilt was push aside. “I need you to form a team. Those walls must remain under our control, so find any willing men and women and you go reclaim that wall and the battlements. Do I make myself clear, Captain!?””
“Yes, Baron!” She answered, the order having boosted her morale as now she had a task assigned to her, a responsibility that demanded that she saved the city. Peake broke the formation with her, the Captain running back past the allies as Peake moved to cover behind another team, peeking from the side to assess the situation.The wall placed the ground team in great danger already, but the gates were still a looming issue if the enemy was to reorganize. They needed to halt their advance.
“Soldier! Go and gather every civilian you can find, find every barrel of alcohol nearby, and roll it to the gates. We need to set the premises of the gate on fire as soon as possible. Go on!”
The knight nodded, and broke his formation for a thrill as Peake protected the warden in front of him. Hopefully, the wall would be regained, and the premises of the gates would be set ablaze. Peake hoped for nothing more, but he knew that nothing ever went according to plan.
“Men, what do we say to this rebel scum? Come over here, you cunts, and taste a bit of the Iron Cock!” Yelled Peake, trying to boost the morale with vulgarity, which spawned a few eager cheers from the nearby men.

Morale, morale… Morale would win this war.

Mass panic.

To witness the gates of a bastion fall was already enough for a man’s heart to shrink, for his doubts to appear and his sweat to turn cold. However, to witness a monster, a nightmare given life through fire breach those same gates was much worse. It was as if the world froze once the beast was past the gates, time coming to a halt, thrills stretching into eternity. The sounds of the war, of clashing swords, storming feet and cries of the wounded stopped as well.

Peake felt that way, staring from beneath his helmet, peeking through the shield formation. A new sound reached his ears, a clanking and clicking that seemed to overcome everything else – the sound of his limbs shaking in fear. It wasn’t only Peake, however, as every warrior beside him shook as well, the chorus of an orchestra forged in fear. Everyone, including the noble-born, wanted to rout, to just drop weapons and shields and hide somewhere – anywhere.
The pushing of the barrels, done mostly by willing volunteers and protected with a tower shield carried by a knight, came to a halt, was the first thing that failed. The volunteers lost the will to volunteer, and instead they turned around and ran for their lives, as dodging the few arrows that still flew through the air was better than risking the Beast. The knights that protected them were next, retreating quickly after their protection tasks were now irrelevant. Afterwards, it was the frontline what began to quiver, the men and women that were staring directly at the feast of the beast. All knights were trained, but not all of them managed to deal with the pressure, and some quickly spun on their heels and began pushing their way back through the ranks, uncaring of honor or orders. The few that did so broke the formation, the spirit, and the morale in mere thrills.
Before he could realize it, Peake was being the main target of every eye in the plaza, every fighter looking at him and asking him a simple question.

Do they run, or do they die?

“Fall back!” he’d call out as loud as his throat allowed him. “Retreat to the barricades!”
A lapse of hesitation came first, and then came the stampede of armored footsteps that ran on the cobblestone plaza, yells, pants and whimpers being the sound of their current morale. Peake ran too, leaving the wide open plaza and instead running towards the nearest set of buildings. Before everyone could escape, however, Peake took control of a nearby Captain, whom Peake distinguished by the plate armor they carried.
“Captain, you and your men are with me!” yelled Peake. “We’ll drive the beast away from the plaza. We can’t let the rebels past the gates, do you understand!?”
The Captain was disappointed, but he too understood the necessity of the task. Just like in low-town, once the gates had been breached and the enemy was in the streets, there was little to do. Even ten men could set a fire that consumed the city, sabotage the defenses, or loot and murder as they pleased. Low-town was not important, as it was a part of the city where a proper defense or the proper mobility for large troops was almost impossible, mostly due to the tight streets and congested territory. Mid-town was wide and open, and in many plazas like these catapults could be erected. The few fortifications built on those streets, where the fleeing men were supposed to regroup, wouldn’t last nearly a tenth of the time the gates did. Both men knew this, for military training included tactics and strategy.

The Captain gathered what remained of his men, three soldiers brave enough – or slow enough – to be called back into the fray. It wasn’t much, and it was very risky, but the strength of an order was something they wouldn’t be able to ignore. Just like the two men, these three knights hid behind a stack of barrels, which brought them some comfort.
Soon enough, Peake found himself and his few subordinates to be the ones in charge of a double-headed fire beast, which seemed to have found him as the Baron had peeked over the corner to assess the situation, to picture a plan. Whatever that plan was, it was now obsolete, as the beast showed clear intent to pursue them.
“Through the buildings, let’s go!” yelled Peake, panicking. A hand went to grip the Captain, pulling him on his feet in order to begin their run. Or perhaps he pulled him out of the cover to avoid being the only one chased after the beast.

And so began the chase. Peake was first in the front lines, and now was the first in the group of fleeing soldiers, a rather dishonorable sight but one that was required. Between those buildings was an alley, which was thankfully full of various doors to choose from, some of them likely to be reinforced, and others most likely not. The sound of the beast behind them was audible no matter how much sweat, how much panting and how many prayers were trapped in the helmet, and so adrenaline kicked in.
“Split up through the alleys!” he’d yell for the last time, unable to keep spending his breath in directing men. They were no longer his men, anyway. Everyone was out for themselves now, each on their own, saving their own lives. A few yards away, three possible alleys opened up; a right, a left, and straight forward. The way leading forward seemed too obvious, and the alley to the right seemed to narrow for his gigantic armor to fit through.

The Baron chose to turn left, for he was left no choice.