((I'm currently working on a story, decided that I should post it for you all to read so I can get some feedback. I would like to get one thing out of the way since I am paranoid about things like this that I put so much work into (and yes it has happened to me before) *ahem* "Plagarise off of me and I will hunt you down." Thankyou.
Other than that feel free to post in this thread about what you liked abou the story, what I can do to make it better, and possibly a title because I am still contemplating one.))
[Entry 1 10/16/06: Prologue]
It started as it usually did for this dream...... A bird’s eye view of a sea of black and crimson flowing across the landscape into the horizon, an even thump thump of armored feet colliding with the packed ground in near parade ground sync to the steady beat of war drums that kept the pace. Armored columns of black clad soldiers, each of their faces concealed behind featureless black war masks moving forward with a steady flow and an air of grim purpose. To any who may have watched this it would have inspired an equal portion of awe and dread as these waves of black clad soldiers passed with the rumbling thunder of thousands of foot falls broke through the fading light of the setting sun, a mass of faceless black warriors moving onwards without pause.
Banners and pikes were raised to armored shoulders, pikes bearing wicked spines with serrated edges and hooks gleaming in the setting sun, the banners cracking sharply in the evening breeze, each bearing the crimson triangle array of the countries standard with each legions symbol emblazoned over the central triangle in the array.
Five he could pick out right away the rest blurred in the vision of memory and fantasy. The Black Hand Legion, the black hand print contrasting to the red of the triangle simple yet absolute. The Blood Fury, its bloodied sword mirroring its blood stained leader: Keirstaad. The Song of Ishandruir, the silver image of the great mountain that served as the legions home serving too as their rallying banner. The Beckoning End, the fanged skull with a black rose clasped between its teeth so much like the beautiful and death brining commander Ashara. The Wrath of Lokhranis, a black vortex the symbol of its patron God to reminding those that fell against them of what awaited upon the passing of one life to the other.
His view skimmed along the sea of soldiers to the heads of the columns where the mounted commanders rode regally upon their kaz'rin'sha dragon mounts and then moved on into the horizon where a wall of mountains rose to greet the advancing legions. From there time seemed to slip forward in a blur of black as the men and women marched forward before it slowed to normal speed when the legions came to a halt before a mighty city blocking a mountain pass that seemed to become narrower and narrower to a point where the city was wedged between the two chains as if it were a stopper in a bottle of wine. This he knew was the legions target, the bastion of the enemy that they hoped to have caught unawares and trapped.
Then his view seemed to gravitate to a single mounted being clad head to toe in black armor that consisted of sliding plates, an ornate pair of pauldrons, gauntlets and boots set over them, small black scrolls glowing with crimson runes attached to his pauldrons fluttering in the gentle breeze.
The figure twisted from side to side as if checking those around him, the plates of his armor sliding easily with his movements as if part of his body instead of armor. He didn’t have to look at the markings on his armor to know that this was one of the Wardens, the enforcers of his countries will, and he didn’t have to see the blades hanging at his side to know that this was him, after all this was his subconscious making him relive a memory in a dream and he had revisited this battlefield many times before.
War horns sounded and the masses moved into motion. The front of the columns holding fast as the middle of the legions moved to either side then forwards to extend the lines as the back moved forwards to fill the positions left empty by the middle. Massive armored forms of Bashkar moved to the very front to plant their interlocking tower shields into the ground as pikes were slid through the small slots left open as archers moved forward behind the shield wall with every eleventh and twelfth slot for a Bashkar was left empty as columns began to form up in the gaps to prepare for advance. Pockets of Warpweavers began to chant together and conjure the magical energies that flowed throughout the area into parasol shaped barriers over the primary formations. Commanders broke ranks and galloped off to their assigned areas and barked orders, forming up men quicker and correcting flaws in formations as quickly as they could while engineers began to move the heavy siege weaponry forward behind the formations, tilting them upwards and eyeballing the trajectories of their projectiles. In a matter of minutes a marching formation was quickly unfolding into a prepared assault line, odd barriers popping up as flickers of torchlight rushed along the cities walls.
The last few drizzles of warriors and siege engines moved forwards and the last barriers began to flicker into life when great balls of flame arced up over the cities walls to carve blazing trails through the darkened sky before impacting with great roars of flame upon the barriers, a cry rising from the unprepared Warpweavers holding the barriers intact.
Once more the war horns sounded and the siege engines located behind the barriers let loose volleys of flaming bolts to arc like comets through the sky before the majority fell short and the lucky few impacted upon the now active barriers that the city boasted.
Engineers shouted to one another as they attempted to adjust the siege engines as the command "Hold!" echoed through the formations. Another blast of the war horns rent the night air and once more the siege engines let loose their deadly rain to shoot through the sky, more impacting upon the barriers around the city as the engineers shouted and toggled the finer adjustments to their machines as other reloaded.
Back to himself his vision went as the rest of the formations and warriors went through their orders as they had played through in his mind so many times. More flaming bolts arced in both directions across the sky as he watch through his own eyes, yet unable to move his own body all he could do is let the events unfold......
The next thing he knew his body was drawing the swords Ash'relar and Zem'sakul and waving them above his head while uttering a rallying cry. "Vash thek omveron! Kas renil shir nos Xyan'ver!" let fly from his lips as he urged his mount forward and he felt the ancient words swell in him, yes truly 'Slay the enemies! For the glory of Xyan'ver!' had rallied many behind him when he was a Warden but it did him little now as his memory spurred him onward with the column behind him expanding out in a line behind the charging commanders.
As the first wave advanced the many gates and porticuli opened and let forth steams of grey clad soldiers in their ungainly plate armor, the luckier in mithril crafted by the common elves or the better suited dwarven armor. But these were merely expendable mercenaries employed to defend the city.
The lines crashed and as he galloped by a soldier he took the mans head off with a cleave of his sword, his legs strapped to the saddle of his mount and gripping its sides as he felt the corded muscles bunch and spring with each stride. His arms weaved in intricate patters; parrying, attacking, disengaging as he plowed through the lines. He heard a feral roar as a twenty foot giant clad head to toe in plate mail that could have crushed several scores men under its weight and often had. Keirstaad, massive chieftain of the Bashkar plowed through enemy ranks like a spearhead, his spiked citadel shield a battering ram that smashed its way through the ranks and his feet crushing those unlucky enough to fall under them as his smaller Bashkar followers followed in a spearhead behind him four of them hefting a massive battering ram as they charged after the pathway their chieftain carved.
Turning back to his tasks he felt his own body move in the flow the had often exercised as he had carved his way through this campaign, taking life as he passed, blood splattering his black armor as his sword darted into and out of the bodies of those he passed. It was around this time he mentally started to count the seconds till the impact that had changed his life so dramatically.
Right on time the ballistae’s bolt broadsided his mount sending him and his trusted steed tumbling, the weight crushing many. When he came to a stop he shuddered at the fact that he had not been crushed to death. He had not died and every time this part was relived he asked himself if it would have been better if he had died under his mount instead of having his legs crushed beneath it, still strapped to the saddle. As darkness washed over the mentally projected body he felt a shudder as the dream began to end and he could truly sleep once more, he didn’t care to relive what happened afterwards, he had to face it when he woke after all.
