Ashes to Ashes - A Mount&Blade: Warband RP

[Macman253]

Raleigh woke tied to the wall of the dungeon as he heard the familiar cries and screams of battle. He was a tall man, broad of shoulder and thick-armed. He spent his youth hewing logs with a splitting axe and developed into a strong man, but despite his strong form he was not stupid, he had a keen mind and a sharp eye. He smelled the blood and piss pour in through his cells window, the fight was just getting started and he knew that if he did not get out he would likely be killed before he could be freed, Nord's were not known for letting their prisoners go and Jarl Haeda had every reason to cut out Raleigh's lungs.

 

The Rhodok knew he would hate himself for it but he had a last ditch plan to get out of the shackle that bound his left arm to the wall by chain. The mercenary fished around for a stick, bit it between his teeth and gripped his left thumb tightly, with a quick tug and a loud pop his thumb came free of his hand and he was able to slide the manacle off his hand and free himself.

 

"Now comes the part that hurts." He thought as he snapped his thumb back into place and vented his pain with a muffled groan. He shook off the pain as he went over to the wall and gripped the bench, he pulled hard on it until the nails that held it to the floor came loose and he put it over his shoulder as he moved to the iron crossbar gate and checked the hinges. "Half barrel hinges... I'm as good as free." He thought, a wide smirk across his face. He reminded himself to thank whoever was attacking and repay them in kind as he fitted the legs of the bench to the door and braced himself against the bars, his foot planted firmly on the bench as he pushed with all his strength. The bars creaked and sang from the pressure and soon, the hinges snapped clean off and the door clattered to the floor with a loud bang.

 

The guard outside picked up his axe and opened the door, only to be met by a flying bench that knocked him clean off his feet. Raleigh's foot came down on the mans skull and split it like a rotten melon. He found his gear in a chest nearby, he threw on his studded leather jerkin, kissed Darling and slung her over his shoulder before cinching his belt with the bolt-quiver around his waist and sliding his boot-knife into it's proper place. Lastly, he picked up Cleaver and bound up the stairs in a two and three step stride and bursting his way into the daylight. The battle was in full swing, the siege-tower was pouring out troops and the defenders were rallying to meet them. He noticed the heavy armor on many of the troops and instantly recognized them as Swadian. It was a pitiful siege, a single tower. It would be a carnal house of slaughter trying to take a castle with one tower. The attackers needed a way in and Raleigh knew just how to get it to them, first and foremost... he would need to get into the gatehouse.

[FreemasonGamer]

Disappointingly, the Vaegir was warranted too little time to relish the Swadians' seemingly small yet meaningful accomplishment of breaching Knudarr before a new threat emerged; mere moments after his proudly spoken exclamation, the chilling song of returning fire whistled downward from the mist-laden, shrouded heights of the fortification. Almost instinctively, Komolov ducked below his meager cover as those retaliating arrows sailed down from the foggy gloom above and struck their unfortunate targets on battlements below, the choked wails of those dying crossbowmen easily convincing a half-frustrated, half-concerned smolder to appear upon the Vaegir's countenance. Soon peaking upward over his defensive barrier, Komolov barely saw the shadowy silhouettes of Knuddar Castle's pair of towers looming ominously in the fog which cloaked the fortress. The marksman must be stationed upon one of those two towers, the Vaegir so earnestly believed.

 

As if to confirm and refine Komolov's assumptions, another arrow—surely fired from the marksman's bow—dove from the leftmost tower and claimed another Swadian life amid the chaos unfolding upon the ramparts of the castle. Scowling, the Vaegir notched an arrow of his own before drawing his bowstring tightly, and he took a deep, steadying breath before revealing himself. After quickly aiming where he imagined the top of the left tower would be, Komolov loosed his first arrow at the hidden marksman and swiftly notched another; he soon fired that second arrow in addition once he varied his aim vertically. Although, the Vaegir was then interrupted when one of the marksman's raven-feathered arrows struck the barrier partially protecting Komolov up to his waist. If it was not for that bit of protection, the marksman's arrow would have undoubtedly skewered the Vaegir's knee.

 

Suddenly kneeling down behind his wooden cover and eyeing the broad steel tip of the arrow that had nearly penetrated it, Komolov notched a third arrow and spat irritably, "Spectacular..."

 

The exchange that ensued between the Vaegir and Nord bowmen was truly a test of patience, talent, and intuition. Over the course of several intense minutes, Komolov fired a staggering five arrows in total aimed at the distant marksman, who wasted no time and loosed five of his arrows into Komolov's direction as well. This attrition was draining the Vaegir's dwindling supply of ammunition at a worrisome rate, and he would be in a very troublesome position if he ran dry of arrows entirely. At the very least, Komolov appreciated the reality that he was distracting the Nord marksman from picking off his fellow companions.

 

In a fit of desperation and impatience, the Vaegir paused for a moment and rose to his feet, whistling as sharply and loudly as possible before he blustered tauntingly, "I'm right here!"

 

Fearlessly standing tall, Komolov narrowed his eyes as he notched his sixth arrow dedicated to the demise of this marksman. Just as the Vaegir had hoped, his adversary quickly took the bait and fired his sixth arrow fletched with ebony, and Komolov maintained his rigid posture even as that arrow raced past his head. For a brief second or two and not a moment longer, the steel of that Nordic arrow painfully grazed Komolov's countenance parallel to his right cheekbone. With his teeth gritting and the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end, the Vaegir swiftly raised his drawn bow and fired in the direction from which the marksman's raven-feathered arrow had come.

 

One breath was had, then two. Komolov's heart raced furiously, and he feared that he might not have quelled his opponent. However, the Vaegir's uncertainty vanished when a figure fell from the concealing shroud of fog at the height of Knudarr's leftmost tower, and the defeated Nord marksman ceased to be once his body met the ground far below. Shedding the most brilliant grin despite his pained and bleeding cheek, Komolov lifted his bow victoriously and shouted with the ferocity of a Nord's battle cry.

Edited September 27, 2015 by FreemasonGamer

[pierrator]

Very good job for your history

[TheVampireDante]

Locked by request.