Flassche: A Blood Oath (open)

[DarkEnigma]

Please refrain from replying directly to this thread, Pm me if you are interested.

Title: A Blood Oath

Excerpt:
When the four gods shaped the earth they created many races, yet each god granted one race with a gift, a choice.
The humans chose pride and strength, slowly becoming a nation that always seemed to crave expanding and improving itself.
The elven people chose life and knowledge, ensuring that their people had incredible life expectancy and were blessed with an insight that few other races had.
The dwarves asked their god to make them as their mountain, strong and durable, yet even stronger on the inside. They became more durable than the other races, yet also more secluded and cold.

Over the centuries the dwarves began to dig into the mountains of the earth and finally vanished from the land, leaving only their former cities behind to tell their tale until those to faded from the world. Now nearly two thousand years later the dwarves have come back to this world in a time of conflict, coming to the aid of the elves. Yet there help comes at a steep price, the life of one of the elven queens. 

Content:
-Male/Female
-Dwarf/Elf
-Size difference
-Interspecies
-Twisted romance

Setting:
Fantasy/Medieval

My Character(s):
Lancarious Orum Jarkar, second prince and currently commander of the first and second legion. For a dwarf he is quite calm and composed, yet still carried much of the dwarven berserker rage within him. He is the second son of the empire and is tasked at protecting the elven people and indirectly their pathetic human allies.
The dwarf is a 5”2 tall creature with wide shoulders and a thick limbs. Like all dwarfs his frame screams strength instead of grace, his body build like a brick to withstand the harshness of living underground for centuries.
This young prince is ordered by his father to save the elven people and take one of their queens as his own wife, hoping some of the elven longevity is able to be bred into the dwarven lineage.

Your Character(s):
A wise and proud elven queen. Her age would be much older than your average human, still young enough in elven terms to be fit for breeding, yet also be considered a mature female.
The characters background is open for Interpretation; height, age, traits, build, ethnicity, etc.

Inspiration for the scene:
Imagining dwarves as a slightly more efficient and less hairy race. Turns out they are even more awesome when they look somewhat more militaristic.

[DarkEnigma]

Chapter one: The New Army

The year is 2215, also known as the second age. The human imperium is stretched to the breaking point; its authority and might challenged along every border. The greatest thread lies in the north, where the massing forces of orcs, goblins and other monstrosities mass for a grand campaign. In an time of constant warfare and strive, Mankind ruins it very soul due to the constant plotting and political backstabbing. Once great families now fight for power as the emperor himself steers the realm to a slow and painful death. Where the human race is still hobbling on, painfully, the Elven as a race are almost nearing total extinction. In this age mankind and elvenkind stand together, holding onto the last line of defence before the horde of monsters sweep into the rest of the known world, the north and east already completely taken wiped out.

Catapults, one of the Soldiers had screamed, though the young elf was sure they had nothing to do with cats. At the first sound of their racket, he had moved the stray cats to the safety of the storeroom. The storeroom was close to the house of healing, allowing healers to work quickly and efficiently. Cats belonged in the house of healing, both as symbol for resurrection and their helpfulness. In the Houses of Healing, the cats had the usual task of hunting and killing the vermin. Left unchecked, mice and rats soon would chew through the medical texts and ruin the bandages and herbs. Though guarding the supplies was important work and worthy of any cat, the cats in the Houses also had a second, higher calling. Some healers claimed that their presence calmed restless minds and cheered downcast hearts, some even claimed that their purring helped broken bones to knit faster, so the cats made it their duty to sit with the injured and sick. Many of the humans that now lived among them were doubtful, although they kept their mouths shut about it, thinking the cats would make a decent meal when the food as running low. Strange how the two races still held some distrust, even during the threat of an overwhelming shared enemy.

It ought to have been chaos. Gladrios was overrun with refugees from both the kingdoms of men of the north, and west, not to speak of their own people from outlying villages who had also sought shelter within its walls. But someone—or perhaps several someone’s—clearly had a genius for organization, and it even seemed as if Gladrios might have originally been built with just such a purpose in mind. The calm of the elves and mankind’s ability to obey orders were the perfect mixture, however unstable it appeared. The men still had a solid army, some eighty thousand strong, not counting all the lost souls in the world who were either in hiding or fleeing. The army was exhausted and nearly shattered, only a quarter of them garrisoned within the elven capital Gladrios, the last one still standing. The capital was besieged on all sides, a horde of orcs, goblins, trolls and other monstrous creatures held the city by its throat. The human army had tried to attack it from behind, crashing at the rear of the enemy. They had fought bravely, yet could hardly dent the horde that was determined to exterminate every sentient creature. Fifty thousand men had died that day, leaving only twenty thousand alive within the city and sixty thousand to fend for themselves outside, retreating in every other direction.

Elven and Human messengers had been send to every kingdom known in the world, both south and east still stood. To the humans amusement, a Elven messenger had been send to the east, trying to get the lost dwarves to help them. The humans said they were a myth, some fiction concocted by old elves that ate too many psychotropic mushrooms. Legends and stories were all that was left of the dwarves, however grand a tale they might still be. Elves claimed they were like steel and rock, hard, unyielding and composed. They were around four and a half to about five feet, although much wider in their shoulders than the average human. Humans loved to depict them as bearded little bears, fat and constantly drunk. The foolish humans had never read the ancient scriptures, nor had they even seen a Dwarven sword, a relic that still had kept its edge after all this time. No, the humans did not think the Dwarves would come, nor did many of the Elves. The alliance of Mankind and Elves would have to survive this on their own.

The hammering of the catapults never ceased, throwing rock after rock at the city, occasionally firing live Goblins and captured humans. The people were soon getting used to the sounds of moaning, screaming and the constant ‘thump’ of flesh and rock slamming against the walls. Another charge would arrive soon, testing the gates and trying to force ladders onto the walls. For the last few days they have been slowly making more and more progress. The elders spoke of mere days now, five at the most, until the walls would crumble and the last bastion of Elven civilization would be extinguished. Yet, in all this despair and sadness, the Elven people would hold fast and show the world and all the ages that would follow; The Elves had held their ground and would fight alongside of men as long as their lungs held air and their veins held blood. The elven youth noticed his people going up the ramparts, holding the walls and protecting their people once more. The Humans were hard at work on their own trebuchets, large hulking behemoths of wood and iron. A well trained elf was worth two human archers, both in accuracy and endurance, yet a trebuchet was worth ten of each. The enemy horde was preparing for the charge, feet stamping on the ground and their throats emanating a low rumble. Their language was alien and vile, although everyone could guess what they were hinting at.

Strangely their feet stamping was louder today than any other, more precise as well. The youth slid past two humans and climbed up the stairs, ignoring glares the older Elves gave him. He peered over the ledge and noticed the enemy horde, their numbers in the thousands. The scouts had said they had over fifty trolls with them, and a combined army of orcs and goblins that would be around a hundred and fifty thousand. In reality it was but a sliver of the numbers they actually had in the world, yet it was enough to overwhelm their own numbers twice over should the walls finally collapse. The enemy did not charge this day, instead looking around, confused. Some stopped moving their feet, yet the sounds of stamping feet were only increasing, reaching thunderous levels. The earth began to shake, quake and tremble, small pebbles rolling around. Every second it increased, defying the imagination of man, elf and monster alike. Finally the sounds came to a halt, a new force showing itself at the tip of a large hill.

Twenty five thousand soldiers suddenly stood at the ridge, holding their ground. They stood in a perfect line, five deep and five thousand wide. Their frames were shorter than most humans, yet everyone looked wider, frames covered from head to toe in steel plating. The armour they wore was twice as thick as any amour a human would and could wear, not to mention of better quality and craftsmanship. They eyed the broken city, its charred walls and corpses that were piling up at the walls. The minute they arrived they had brought something new to this place; silence. For the first time since four months of unending siege there was complete and utter silence, save for the occasional mutter and moan of a dying soul. Twenty five thousand souls were perfectly lined up and acting as one. They raised their large shields, ones that were nearly as tall as they were. Swords, axes, hammers and spears were slammed into the metal border of the shield, each perfectly in sync with the other.

-THUMP thump thump thump THUMP thump thump thump THUMP thump thump thump-
-THUMP thump thump thump THUMP thump thump thump THUMP thump thump thump-
-THUMP thump thump thump THUMP thump thump thump THUMP thump thump thump-

The air was filled with the sounds of heavy metal objects striking another one, never wavering or changing rhythm. Beat after beat, the new army displayed their discipline, slowly moving forwards as one. At first it was but a slow walk, one foot after the other, yet overtime they began to pick up the pace. Some of the goblins began to mutter, shake shoulders or move a bit closer to the walls, as if to shield them. What happened next in those few minutes was nothing short of a bard’s tale. Twenty five thousand voices suddenly roared out. Their voices were deep and grumbling, like a mountain breaking apart and crashing into the ground. The met the horde head on, their line simply pushing through it, even pushing larger orcs aside as if they were nothing. Trolls were dispatched by throwing large two handed axes at them or simply swarmed and stabbed to death. The skirmish had only lasted twenty minutes, yet a clear and bloody path was cut through the enemy line. A large ring of soldiers was forming around a broken gate that led to the city and planted their shields into the ground. They would hold the line like a wall, perhaps even better.

Ten steel clad soldiers were following two others, breaking off from their main army, one of them even wider and taller than the others. He was still very short in human terms, yet he had a few inches on his brethren. They entered the gates, stepping through a small crack that was being defended by a hundred human soldiers. They were too startled to stop them, minds still wondering if they were friend or foe. These… creatures had just done what one hundred and thirty thousand humans could not, within an hour. Sure, they had suffered casualties, yet it was surprisingly low. Any wounded soldier was being helped out of his armour by others and the wound was being burned closed by a hot iron, never once did their wounded started screaming, some of them even doing the branding themselves and laughing at the ones that needed help.

The twelve warriors made their way up the steps, heading straight for the central command post. They never blinked when a hundred trained elven archers had their bows aimed at them, nor the banner of human heavy cavalry behind them, simply moving on. Upon reaching the large fort, one used for discussion and tactics, these twelve steel creatures stopped, ten of them forming half a circle around the other two. They waited calmly for the people inside to come out, most of them confused and quite startled, no doubt having heard the news already by messenger. One of the two warriors stepped forwards, eying the elven and human commanders, queens and kings, weighing each female and male of both races. Finally he spoke, a voice deep and slow.


“We come in your time of need, at the call for help. The promise we were offered was endless wealth, yet we choose with wisdom. We will help you with his plague in your lands, help you defend it. In return we demand a single life from your own.”

He then rushed backwards and joined the other ten warriors, seemingly absorbed in their ranks. The remaining one simply took a step closer and began to undo the mechanism on his helmet, twisting it left and then right to remove it, apparently it wasn’t held together by leather straps. Emerald eyes were peering out from his skull, a hard and seemingly chiselled face. He had a freshly shaven jawline and his hair had also been shaven recently. He did not show emotion, any, just a blank expression. He raised a gauntleted hand, pointing at one of the elven queens with a single digit, as if that was enough of an explanation that she was to be the ‘single life’. How would this battered and nearly broken alliance react to the sudden reappearance of the Dwarven race, not to mention the arrival of a small, yet effective army. The chosen elven queen would no doubt be the most startled of them all.

Rorak Darald, eyed his young master as he took his place with his brethren. He himself was the shield arm of the young dwarven prince, as well as the whispering truth voice and other things. He had been appointed to the lad when the brat was just three weeks old, tasked to shape him into a man. Rorak grinned widely, smile hidden and protected by the helmet that was fastened on his armour. The lad had grown up fine, if not a bit reckless for his own safety. He preferred to lead every charge himself, yet chose care when he had to position others. The only thing that Rorak felt was wrong with the boy was his preference for a sword. Every dwarf knew a good solid hammer was an extension of your manhood.
He had spoken for the young prince, knowing it would shame him if he as a prince had to speak. They had slaughtered over ten thousand orcs and goblins, not to mention three trolls, mere minutes ago. So why were these people so concerned with protocol, strange as it might be. They even had the gall to point weapons at the young prince, as if a proper dwarf could be threatened by surface dwellers. They had every intention of heading straight back into the fight as soon as this was done, yet now it would seem like they were scared of the bows.

Lancarious Orum Jarkar, second prince and currently commander of the first and second legion. The prince was a giant of a dwarf, nearly five feet and two inches, same as his father. A few younger dwarves had teased him over his height back when he was younger, telling him his mother had been a human. They had stopped doing that when he had shattered three jaws and dislocated a few shoulders. The prince placed the helmet back on his face and began to slide she locking mechanism back in place. He glanced from his helmet to the people standing in front of him. The twin black crystal gems in his helmet would shield out most of the light from the sun. How could these people stand that eye watering light. A torch was one thing, yet a flaming ball in the sky was another. When he spun around to join his brethren, his sword arm instantly began to grab the hilt of his sword, caressing it like a lover. No words were spoken by the prince, simply a finger pointing at the life that was required. Let them ponder and plot like rodents while dwarves did what they were good at, showing mountains what strength and endurance was.

[DarkEnigma]

“With all our heart, until our chest falls low.
Who fears death? No dwarf we know.

While veins hold blood, until it rends.
War is living, not stopping until the end.

Our limbs strong, our steel bright.
We’ll crush our enemies in the eternal night.

Over twenty four thousand souls began to chant those word, accented and low. Some slammed their shields in the ground in the same pace, others slammed fist to chest. The enemy had tested the shield wall a few times, each time meeting death and dismemberment. It was easier to move a mountain than it was to move a stubborn dwarf. A mountain did not swing a broad sword at your neck or throw an axe at your spine. The wounded dwarfs had been branded and treated; already back in their armour at the last row, ignoring the insults from the other dwarves. Those heavily wounded were waiting inside the city, although their numbers were few. A dwarf would fight on even when wounded, as long as he could hold a shield for a fellow brother.

The enemy numbers were numerous, yet they were spread out thinly due to having to surround an entire city, not to mention lacking any sort of discipline. The down side to a siege was you had to spread your troops thinly in order to cover all the exits. These dwarfs were compact and moving as one. The shield wall simply moved a few steps forwards, slammed shields in the ground and waited for the next signal, each time moving as one. Each time they advanced, another rank would slide forwards, moving past the former first line and holding the line there. Only the fifth line would never do so, seeing as it was for the young and the wounded. Axes fell downwards, spears shot forwards, hammers rammed through skulls, and swords severed limbs, a battle worthy of songs. Every dwarven armour was quickly painted red, yet only little actually crept inside, seeing as how sealed it was.

The dwarves moved slowly, not matching the speed of the humans or elves, yet they had something else; strength and endurance. A cavalry strike might cause more damage in one moment, yet it had a bloody toll to your own troops. The dwarfs were simply moving the wall forwards every few minutes, chopping and cutting when they met more foes. Sometimes a line seemed to cave in, allowing enemies to break through, yet they were boxed in and cut apart completely, limbs being thrown towards the enemy afterwards. This army was mathematical in the art of death. Occasionally a dwarf fell, enemy weapon finally finding a weak spot. Each time one of their ranks fell, the chant picked up again, honouring the dead and blessing the living.

These dwarves fought for a long time, not stopping until night finally came. The enemy was bloodied then, moral nearly at the breaking point. A few dwarves clubbed a few goblins unconscious and dragged them with them as the army moved towards the city again. A large pile of orc and goblin corpses was piled up around the gate and several living goblins were pinned at the wall, bodies still alive yet in constant pain. A few dwarves had to chuckle at that sight, bellowing a deep ‘hurr hurr hurr’ that sounded more like a bear mating than an actual laugh.



Most of the dwarves began to set up camp, many of them staying behind the main gate, yet some pairs of twenty began to spread through the city to camp at important sections, guard towers and breaks in the walls. Rorak glanced at the young prince as he undid his helmet. The colour red on his armour suited him, ensuring respect from his men. A few of the older men commented on the princes sword work, claiming he still did not have the finesse to dismember a orc in the ‘proper way’, although a few compliments were giving how he slammed his shield so hard in a gobbling its skull caved in. The prince, Lancarious, simply nodded as he spoke to the other men, often asking when their wives would come to the battlefield and show them how to handle their weapons. A cracked teeth and a fresh bruise was enough to celebrate this victory. Rorak made his way to the prince and began telling about the wounded and dead, not that Lancarious was ignorant of these things. Still, two counting’s made for a better picture.

“My prince, Three hundred and sixty five dead, all recovered; Fifty one wounded, where eight of them will go to the halls of their ancestors and join their fallen brothers. By my estimates we have slain fifty thousand, give or take a few hundred. Dorak oathshield killed two trolls, if his boastings were true. I think the earned the right to be stand on your sword arm for the next push. Ale?”

He spoke the last part with a grin, one shown to the prince as he also undid his helmet. His features were similar to that of the other dwarves, shaven and hard. Rorak had a few scars on his features, including one dangerously close to his left eye. His own green eyes met the prince’s, holding contact before he muttered something about the ‘boy’ needing a few scars and a hammer to stop looking like a maiden. His laughter was cut off when a whistle from one of their brethren could be heard, signalling that a group of people were coming.

[DarkEnigma]

Change log

10-09-2013 – Added the plot.