Nelcreed sat around six ways (12 miles) from the southern border of Niln, the great Northern Kingdom. It was a farming village, quite wealthy with crops and cattle, raising Aurochs for meat and Oxen for work, as well as sheep and goats. The houses in this village were longhouses built from long planks of wood for walls and thick rooves of thatch. At the end of these houses were stone and clay silos for storing the many crops grown there before they were shipped to less fertile places up north. In this village, we find a man named Othor Silversmith, and his assistant, a young Forest Elf named Ameria.
Youngfall 8th, 145 PIE
Nelcreed, Barrow Hold of Niln
The sun was just rising, the air was cool as the winter began its approach. The Holdsmen made their way around the village, tending to their livestock and starting to harvest the last of the crops, these were being stored away for winter rather than being sold further north. Children either performed their chores, cleaning the houses or helping in harvest, or played in the main cobblestone street that ran through the center of the village.
The bell from the temple tolled loudly, a long house-shaped temple at the edge of the village was what it was, it only served as a place of residence for priests and healers rather than a place of worship. Those were reserved for the shrines outside of town. Inside this village was a blacksmith hut, a longhouse curved with a stone porch inside the curve. The porch held a circular stone forge with all the essentials of a forge, a billow stuck into the bottom, a water trough nearby next to an anvil, a grindstone also close by.
Sitting at this forge was Othor Silversmith, a man who had served for House Barrow as a soldier until the Battle of the Dusk Field, he had his hand cut just above the wrist by an East Olma Soldier. After this, he was given a special prosthetic that allowed him to add attachments, hammers, and the like, which made him an excellent blacksmith. The last time he's made weapons for the Jarl's men was during Rolig's Rebellion, but that had been near twenty years ago.
Now he was seventy years old, he made his living as a blacksmith in Nelcreed, making tools and cutlery for the villagers, it made him a good amount of coin. He was tall like all Northerners, standing over most humans, with muscle to back it up, his face was worn and wrinkled, marked by a long white beard that had been tied in a knot, and long white hair going down to his back. He wore black pants and shoes, and a white shirt underneath a leather smith's apron.
His prosthetic looked to be bolted onto his arm, it went halfway up to his elbow and had a rounded head, a hammer attached to a long pole sticking out from it, tongs in his rough and callused left hand. He had an assistant who lived with him, a Forest Elf girl no more than twelve, standing just below five feet in height. Her name was Ameria, he skin was the tan brown of a Forest elf, her hair was a brownish-black, it was braided in the traditional style of the Forest Elves, her eyes were a brilliant shade of blue.
She dressed more like the traditional dress of a Northerner, a small smith's apron around the front of her dress. She stepped out of the house and made her way over to the forge. She watched the spectacle before her as he took a long scythe blade he had been working with on the anvil and gripping it in his forge tongs, took the molten blade and dunked it in a trough full of water, sending steam high into the air with a loud bubbling sound.
It truly was a sight to behold as the old, one-armed man would hammer away at his forge, she truly envied him as a mentor and a sort of father. He turned himself around to look at his young ward:
"Still amazes ye don' it?" he bespoke, a crooked tooth smile crossing his aged face. Ameria was quiet at first but spoke up:
"It really is amazing," she walked over to him as he took the now cooled piece of steel, she stared at the marvelous steel craftsmanship, it looked as beautiful as Castle Steel with all of its wave-like ripples.
"Go grab me da shaft," said Othor, pointing his head to the wall where a scythe shaft leaned. Ameria grabbed it from its place "Now hold it up," Ameria held it straight as per Othor's order "Now watch yer head" Ameria ducked down as he took and hammered the freshly forged piece of steel down onto the shaft. They finished the task and Othor took the scythe over to the grindstone, he hesitated before saying "Would ya like to sharpen it?"
An excited smile crossed over the young Alluvian's face as he got up from the wooden seat of the grindstone and gave her the tool. She began to spin the stone wheel using her foot, as she worked the steel blade, Othor looked to the east. He watched the sun peak over the rooves of the longhouses, listening to the sounds of workers, and the almost musical sound of steel being sharpened on a grindstone. It brought back memories of his days as a smith for the Jarls' Army, great days of glory and strength and his honor, and days when he brought honor to his name.
His memories were interrupted as the deep drone of a horn carried over the village like a long gust of wind. Almost as suddenly as it came, it stopped and the world was quiet as the Holdsmen had stopped their labors. They gathered on the main path through the village, looking in the direction of a watchtower south of the village. The loud droning of another blast carried over the stillness of the township.
Then they appeared, riders, coming over a hill south of the city. They bore bronze armor that glinted in the sun, they were bronze corslets that covered down to their legs made from flexible plates. They wore leather boots covered by bronze sabatons. They donned crested bronze helms donning no crest, cheek guards covering their strangely colored faces. In their hands were long lances of wood, tipped with bronze leaf heads, at their hips were there Kopis' in black leather scabbards.
They rode with a soldier donning full bronze plate armor, a plume of blue-dyed horsehair on a crest atop their helmet. This warrior held a long banner in their hand, one showing a white field with twelve blue kite shields dotting the field. It swung in the breeze as the horsemen galloped to the village, hypnotizing the Holdsmen in fear. Othor snapped out of his trance, he grabbed Ameria's shoulder, still looking at the fastly approaching cavalry:
"Inside, now" Ameria stopped grinding and got up from her spot, running inside, dropping the freshly forged scythe. She was soon followed by Othor who shut the wooden plank door behind them. Othor brought the young elf over to a table that sat against the western wall. The old soldier kneeled down before her as she lies underneath: "Don't move from this spot, you understand?" the elf nodded "good"
Ameria watched as her Northern guardian walked across the room from the table and grabbed a long battle ax off a rack hanging from the wall. Othor looked over its glinting steelhead. Gripping it with his left hand, he rested the handle on his steel arm. He rested the end of the ax's shaft on the floor and lowered his head, letting out a quiet prayer. He lifted his head and brought up his ax. He swung open the door and ran out of the longhouse, and into the dirt street, his ax in hand.
Ameria moved from her spot, creeping across the wooden floor and over to the door, peering out to the cool morning air. The horsemen rode through the village, lances lowered in a charge, running down its Holdsmen denizens with no discrimination. Riding on their horses they thrust their lances through the backs and slash them with their kopis' shoot them down with their great wheellock pistols.
Othor gaped around at his surroundings, shocked at the brutality of this attack. Even when he'd been a soldier he'd never seen men attack a village with such wild abandon. Othor turned south where the attackers came from, he saw one charging, he saw his eyes, his blue skin, and lighter blue beard. He stood, ax in hand ready for a swing as the rider came closer. Like it was magic, the old warrior used all his strength to swing the large-headed ax in a great downward swing like chopping wood.
The steelhead of the ax met the neck of the black warhorse, nearly decapitating the beast. The legs of the creature crumpled, throwing the rider forward snapping his lance, and sending splinters of wood through the air like small arrows, and dismounting the rider. The soldier, filled with rage, lifted his dirt and armor-covered body up to meet his attacker. Standing full, he barely met Othor's cheek, the bronze-clad warrior unsheathed his long single-edged, and recurved kopis, cast from glinting Equin Bronze that shone in the rising sun.
Othor held his ax in hand, dripping with the crimson blood of the riders' steed still dripping onto the wet, cool ground below. The tall north man swung the sharp blade of his ax, to strike the rider before him with the speed of a young soldier. The bronze soldier before him, gripping his blade with both hands, struck the hard edge of his sword against the wood of the ax handle, leaving a deep cut in its grain.
Othor did not wait for the soldier to strike, before he could pull his blade from the ax's shaft, he struck him on the side of the head with his blacksmith hammer attached to his arm. He swung it with as much force as an old blacksmith could, leaving a massive, deep dent in the soldier's bronze helmet. Like a flash of lightning, the Equin soldier pulled a pistol from his hip, a short-barrelled wheellock made from dark wood. Before Othor could react, the horseman let loose the lead ball packed inside its short barrel.
In a cloud of dark gray smoke and bloody mist, Othor fell to the ground, a bloody hole in his left eye and an even bigger hole in the back of his head. His massive corpse fell to the ground with a great thud, a cloud of brown dust rising from where he fell. The rider began to stumble off south, dropping his pistol into the dirt before he fell with a metallic clank, dead from his wound.
Ameria stayed transfixed on the corpse of her teacher as it lay on the cold hard ground. she stared for what felt like hours until a shout snapped her from her trance. The soldier in full plate rode just where she could see, the soldier cried out in a language she could not understand and then pulled out a great war horn made from white cattle's horn bound in gold bands, painted with scenes of Hoplites doing battle.
With a loud blast from the horn, soldiers began to light bundles of tallow-soaked reeds with chain-connected flint and steels. As the bundles caught fire they were tossed onto the thick thatch of the house rooves, lighting them ablaze as if they sat within hearths in a lord's hall. Another loud blast from the horn and the soldiers galloped south almost as suddenly as they had come, leaving the village empty and silent, say for the burning that of the houses.
Ameria got up, the house she was in remaining somehow untouched by the soldiers and their fire. She stuck her head out, looking to see if the riders had left the town, she looked south to see a cloud of dust where the riders went as they disappeared over the hill they had come over. The young she-elf approached the corpse of her loving teacher, his aged face now pale and cold, blood pooling around the chasm in the rear of his skull.
Tears fell down her brown face as she looked upon his opened blue right eye, frozen in death, he tears fell onto the dirt her sobs kept muffled by the crackling fires around her. She dried her tears with the sleeve of her dress and began to form a plan in her head. She needed to find a way to quickly warn the Jarl. She ran westward, past the burning temple and to the stables near the western border of the town.
The stable was filled with the corpses of large workhorses and fleeting steeds lay inside. Though one remained alive, it was a large horse thick with muscle, white covered with black spots, with only a halter on its muzzle and no saddle. It kicked and neighed loudly as the fires crackled around it, sending timbers down from the roof. Ameria ran over to the beast, using all of her strength she jumped onto its back, better than some Northerners could.
The beast bucked and kicked as she tried to hold on. She gripped its halter and managed to gain control of the animal, directing it towards the road leading out of the village. The horse sped off as fast as it could, leaving the city burning brightly in the early morning sun, black smoke rising high into the air like giant serpents with black scales.
Sitting just a mile from the northern shore of the Grand River Jord, Fallreach stands as a testament to man's strength. It is a city surrounded by two heavily protected walls, guarded by cannons and guns that stood near a hundred feet tall, made from gray bricks cut directly from the mountains. The walls stood wide as houses, hiding a great many tools of defense within. Great crossbows firing an explosive shot and devices that shot flaming oils, the walls were impenetrable and so ancient that many believed the gods themselves built them.
Six great bronze gates dot the walls on the north, south, and east sides, with two tall towers on either side. The city that sat at the base of the Gold Mountains covered a great swathe of land, making it the largest in the known world other than Orgithika in the far east and Canterlot in Equestria, its grandeur stretches into the great pine forests of the north of Niln. A city filled with rickety old structures of wood and cloth, and beautiful stone-carved manor houses, a single grand clocktower at the center. On its south side was Farmer's Town, a village of sorts that provided the city with crops and animals.
To the east was Whore Town, a village made up of brothels that were outlawed in the city. The ones closest to the wall were richer, the women were young and beautiful, but expensive. At the edge of Whore Town was where the women were, older, and uglier but cheaper. North was The Kingswood, a great pine forest where game roamed, where kings and nobles hunted when their duties became too much.
It was home to Great Elk, Great Boars, White Tail Deer, and all manner of game. Above the city, sitting on the western Gold Mountains and upon the tallest mountain named Oldjorin is the keep, the keep is at the top of three great staircases. The first goes up to the smooth stone walkway area, a tall portcullis with two round towers topped by pointed conical rooves standing on either side.
Past the towers, another staircase turns north and leads to the second set of towers before turning west and leading to the last set of towers that went straight to the eastward-facing castle. The castle's out bailey went from the face of the mountain and wrapped around like a huge cacoon. Six towers marked the bailey two along the north and south sides and two on either side of the steel gate. The Great Hall looked small from where it sat, but the grandeur of this keep sat hidden inside of Oldjorn.
Youngfall 8th, 145 PIE
Just Outside of Fallreach
The ground was brown with fallen pine needles, obscuring the grass of the forest floor. Pines soared over the party as they walked between the thick trunks of the trees, the sun hung overhead, peaking through the branches and leaving the forest floor a mix of dark and light. The party was made of five men, there were two Wolf Guards. Great soldiers donning glinting steel plate armor of the highest quality, crested helms topped by dark blue horsehair, their cheek guards folded out.
One had a braided red beard on his seasoned face, bushy red eyebrows over gray eyes sitting in deep and wrinkled sockets, narrowed in the sunlight, long red hair hidden beneath the helm. The other stood out, his face was pale and worn, a long beard was platinum in color, his old eyes a crystal, glowing blue. They wielded the same weapons, a long spear, a lugged head at its top, and large kite shields of strong Stonewood painted blue, showing a wolf head and crossed swords.
On their left hips rested the ancient and traditional Ulfbehrt sword, a pommel shaped like a wolf's head, and a wheellock on their right, made from white wood and silvery steel. The next was a young man wearing green, his trousers fit loose, meeting black shoes wore a dark green blouse and a feathered cap of green. His hair was blonde, his face clear of blemishes, and his eyes alive with the blue that many Northerners held.
He carried the king's gun in his hand, a wheellock rifle, its barrel was long and dark, the rifle's stock made from dark oak wood, engravings of animals carved like the ancient Northerners would. Lines that were carved in such patterns to make birds and deer and boars come to life. Then there was Wulfgar Frost Breath, a great man donning black oil steel plate armor, carved with elegant engravings and beautiful golden inlays upon his pauldrons and his breastplate.
His greaves and sabatons sat bare of carvings, baring only the matte black of the steel. He carried only a simple Ulfberht sword at his hip as his greatsword would be too large to carry whilst hunting. Leading them was Rignar, King of Niln, a massive broader than a Northerner and taller than one, standing over seven feet in height. He was believed to be part Jotunn to many, he wore a thick black cloak made from the pelt of a black bear, clipped onto a black tunic by silver chains.
His trousers were thick and heavy, made from black wool, his boots made from black leather went halway up his calves. His face was seasoned and tough as leather, his eyes were protruding from his wrinkled face, underneath bushy black eyebrows. His long and flowing black hair seemed to mix with the fur of the bear's pelt on his back, making it look like part of him. His face was covered by a thick black beard that went down to his chest where multiple golden necklaces and pendants for the many gods of the Axonnism Faith hung and a leather bandolier wrapped across.
His hands were large and rough, fair like his face and worn, gold and silver bands hung around his wrists, carved with depictions of warriors and battle. His strides were long and his footfalls heavy, his face was firm and cold, his emerald eyes holding no jovial feel in their gaze. A light breeze blew south, pushing the stench of the city away and blowing the aroma of the pines over the hunting nobles. the nobles meandered northeast through the forest for what must have been an hour judging by the position of the sun.
They all halted when Rignar lifted his enormous hand, signaling them to stop their walk. The beast of a man raised his thick black eyebrows and slowly rotated his head, looking to a ridge north of them, covered by pine needles and shrubbery. he turned his huge frame in that direction, making his way over to the ridge with long strides, his group followed behind as quietly as they could in their plate armor.
They made it to the ridge where the tall king stood crouched on one knee, looking over the ridge, a smile had formed on his face. At the bottom of the ridge, some eight yards away stood a great boar. Its fur was black as charcoal, its tusks, in spite of being buried in the earth, were a beautiful white color. Rignar turned to look at his green-clothed servant, he did not speak but his servant knew what he wanted, it was written in the iris of his deep green eyes that dug into his soul, his long rifle.
The servant quickly handed the long beast of a gun to the towering king. Rignar grabbed the wood and steel contraption with both hands. He then pulled a cartridge from the bandolier Using his stained teeth, he pulled the end off of the cartridge, pouring the black powder into the long barrel of the rifle. He then pulled the long ramrod from beneath the barrel and began packing the cartridge and ball into the breech of his rifle.
He then reached his hand into a pouch on his side, pulling out a spanner wrench and placing it onto the lock, turning it three-quarters and placing the wrench back into his pouch. Then he reached his hand down to his hip, grabbing an Auroch's horn from his side, capped by a pine rubber stopper in its tip. Rignar grabbed the tip with his stained teeth and pulled it out with a quiet pop. He poured a conservative amount of black powder into the priming pan of his rifle, and then closed the dragon shape lock down into the pan.
The tall king placed the buttstock of his rifle into the thick wool of his tunic. He put his left hand on the forward end away from the trigger, He then locked the fingers of his right hand into the trigger guard at the back, putting his pointer finger just before the long slender trigger. His deep green eyes looked down the sight of the long gun, pointed at the back of the boar's head. His breaths were slowed, his hands steady as the mountains, his finger lightly on the trigger.
He drew in a final, deep as he squeezed the trigger
"MY LORD!"
a man's voice cried out from behind, a great flash of fire and smoke followed by a thunderous and hearty crack of exploding powder and a puff of black and gray smoke like that of a dragon signaled that the gun had fired. Below the ridge, a resounding snap was heard. Great splinters of pinewood were sent flying as the musket ball struck a tall pine above the black boar, embedding itself deep into the trunk.
The boar stopped its digging, and out of shock and fright, retreated deeper into the pine forest with loud snorts. Rignar lowered his rifle and lowered his brow in anger. The hulking beast of a man raised himself up from the ground, still facing away from the men who walked with him. he let out a low groan of anger, like that of a beast, deep and rough, shaking the earth. Rignar turned his massive form around to face the men, spotting the man who had interrupted his hunt.
It was a man named Orngiir of Clan Dragon's Horn. His face was young yet still marked with a beard of light brown hair that also marked his head, the side of which was shaved and the hair going down his back braided. He was broad like most Northerners and tall, but still shorter than the king. He wore upon himself a blue and black surcoat was draped over a pair of black breeches and brown leather boots, and Ulfberht on his hip.
Rage filled Rignar’s eyes with a green fire, his mouth was turned down in anger. He stared angrily at Orngiir before he began to make his way over, long stride after long stride. His servant quickly ran over to him shaking as he held his hands out. Rignar angrily pushed his hunting rifle into his hand and against the servant's chest with a clank, not even stopping his angered walk. Rignar came up to the Northerner, pressing close to him, causing Orngiir to lean back.
The brown-haired man quivered in fear as the giant of a ruler looked down on him with rage. The king drew in a deep breath and then bespoke in a voice that shook the very earth they stood on, that echoed deep into the core of all the men in that forest.
"What is the meaning of you interrupting my hunt, AND DRIVING AWAY MY KILL!" His shout of anger was like an earthquake, it seemed to echo through Orngiir's soul like it was a cavern, his voice shook the very heart in his chest like a deep drum.
"S-sire" his voice while deep, was shaky and afraid "A message has come to you... it's from Jarl Denethor M'lord" Orngiir handed the king a small piece of rolled parchment he had been holding in his hand. Rignar unrolled the white piece in his hand and read the Nilscikt writing on the page. Rignar's face contorted with rage, his brows turned down deeper and the lips hidden beneath his beard were pressed together in anger.
He crumpled the parchment in his exposed hands, he rotated his broad figure around to face his companions calling:
"We return to the keep at once!" his voice shook even the strongest amongst them in fear "Horki!" the bearded guard with skin pale as snow turned to him "Tell the servants to ready my horse and regiment of guards at once, for we ride to Barrowtown," he nodded and began walking back to the keep, Rignar and the others following close behind. As they walked, Wulfgar got closer to Rignar, whispering in a voice hard as stone and cold as ice:
"What did the message say?"
Rignar turned and looked down at him, still walking.
"There's been an attack at Nelcreed,"
"An attack you say," responded Wulfgar, still whispering "That's just the Jarls concern, why would he ask for the king to go all the way down there for an attack on a village, it was probably no more than mere bandits,"
"If a Jarl requests the king come to his hold, it must be serious," Rignar replied, "Besides, bandits are what we should hope, it could have been rebels, invaders, or..." he paused, stopping his walk "Pyromancers" he whispered under his breath, True fear seemed to wash over him at the utterance of that word, his eyes widened and his mouth sat agape as his mind flooded with visions of fire and death fro years past.
He knew it was unlikely, but all the battles he had seen would not prepare him for the decimation of the Fire Rebellion less than ten years prior. Such a horrible time that kept him up some nights, but it was all in the past and there was the future of Niln to look to.
