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Legends of Aseria - The Forgotten Nation
Tweet Topic Started: Jul 23 2009, 10:50 PM (298 Views)
Post #1 Jul 23 2009, 10:50 PM Weiss
IF you feel the driving need to post a comment about this story, please either do so via PM or, if you must, create a separate thread in the Literature or Den sections of the forums.


Prologue

Rain poured over a tattered battlefield, the gods of the sky shedding tears for every wrong done to the men who died in a war without purpose. Blood trickled down with the fresh water, cascading along the grassy hilltops in a macabre display. Weapons lay scattered along the grassy slopes, accompanied by the armored corpses of their former masters. How many had survived? Of the hundreds of thousands who revolted, rising to bring an end to the tyranny which had long gripped the land, only a scant few could draw a breath.

The whinny of horses could be heard far in the distance. A scouting party, no doubt, returning to make sure the fields hosted only the departed. A body stirred among its soulless companions. It lurched forward, legs bolstered by nothing greater than the man’s resolve to see the battle through to its end; to live free of his homeland’s tyrannous lord, even if it meant death.

His palm gripped the shaft of a spear and plucked it from the scale plates of a fellow soldier. There would be no complaints. Truly, if that spear could end the life of a Verian soldier, the man from whom it was wrenched could rest in peace, knowing that his end was merely the foothold for the death of an enemy in turn.

Four steeds appeared over the hilltop horizon, three of which seated knights whose armor shown of spotless silver. It was evident they had not been a part of the battle, so much as spectators. Upon the fourth steed, a majestic countenance greeted the staggering warrior. Looking, for all the world, as if he’d joined the field directly from a dinner party, the king of Veria himself gazed down upon the bloodied wasteland with a smug grin that spoke tomes of his satisfaction.

The eyes of a coward looked out over the men who gave their lives in the pursuit of freedom, until finally they rested upon a wilting figure. Hunched over, legs barely bracing the body to stand, a single man held a spear firmly in hand, the point raised to defend the charge that would undoubtedly be coming. The king looked upon him with disdain, a frown creasing his rosy pink lips, powdery white cheeks drawn tightly with dissatisfaction.

“Kill him.”

The three knights exchanged a short glance, deciding in an instant which of them would approach and strike the killing blow to the walking corpse that stood in defiance of the king’s tyranny. The largest of the three dismounted his horse, drawing the blade from his side with a practiced ease. This fight was already decided. While it was apparent this man had not so much as loosed his blade on this final day of the five-year war, it was clear that his position among the king’s guard was not given lightly.

Metal struck wood as the tattered soldier raised his weapon to deflect the powerful knight’s blow. It was all he could do to remain standing while his opponent delivered blow after blow with heavy iron. Finally, the shaft of the spear was split through, the sword careening down and tearing through scale armor as if it were woolen cloth. Blood erupted from the freshly opened wound, spraying its crimson hue over the knight’s immaculate armor. In the end, tarnishing that glimmering silver plate was all the fallen warrior could accomplish.

The king laughed – a shrill sound akin to a banshee’s wail. As the defeated soldier lay there in a fresh pool of his own blood, he found himself unable to sleep with that sound piercing the thick veil of death. With every ounce of his strength, he placed his palms against the crimson earth and pushed himself up, drawing his knees forward until he was on all fours. He wretched up blood even as it poured through the gash in his armor, quickly draining him of what little energy he had left. He crawled forward, desperately reaching for the tipped half of his spear. The knight who felled him previously watched in silent awe.

“What are you doing?” the king bellowed, causing the knight to look up at the shouting tyrant. “Finish him off, now!”

The knight lifted his blade high over his head, positioned conveniently in such a way that he could cleave through his grounded opponent’s neck with little more than the force of gravity.

“Wait!” a voice called out before the blade was brought down. It was a youthful voice, one that could easily have been mistaken for a child. The smallest of the three knights circled his steed to look upon the king and lowered his head apologetically. “Your majesty, surely a man with such strong spirit would be a welcome challenger in the arena. If the wretch survives long enough to see his first round, many people would pay to see an Aserian fight.”

The king blinked, looking at the youngest of his guard in befuddled silence. “Aserian? You mean to tell me he’s from the island nation?”

The third among the knights spoke in response. “He bears the dark skin and sun-bleached hair of their kind, Your Majesty. There is little doubt that he is from Aseria; an exile, most likely.”

“Indeed, he does bear the qualities of an Aserian,” the king responded slowly, eyes looking down at the body that now lay in a heap upon the red-washed grass. “Bramh, bring him along.”

The knight crossed a close-fisted right arm along his chest and responded with a loud, “Yes, Your Majesty!” The king turned, followed by the last knight who had spoken, then by the younger soldier who had protested the Aserian’s death. Bramh sheathed his blade and hoisted the limp body into the saddle of his steed, then mounted the charger himself and snapped the reins. “Hyah!”
Edited by Weiss, Jul 23 2009, 11:05 PM.
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