Bound By Honor (M for F, Fantasy)

[IrishWolf]

Insperation

An old man stiffly walked into the darken hall, a small pool of light surrounding him, from the lone candle in his fist. His beard had gone white and the iron grey, which had replaced the red hair of his youth, was being overtaken by the same lack of color. The wounds of a lifetime as a warrior ached in the night, foretelling of bad weather or war. He wore a simple robe, as he nearly limped along, lifting his gaze, to study many banners hanging from the rafters. Some were so ancient, the colors had faded away and the patterns blurred, until none could tell which army, had proudly carried them to war.

But with each painful step, the light drove away the shades of night, to reveal newer banners, the colors brightening and the images sharp. The crudely made signs of the brutish Orc tribes, the standards of Hobgoblin legions, flags of the Minotaur clans, the coat of arms of Human kingdoms and the sigils of Elvish lords. All enemies, at one time or another and vanquished on the field of battle. Some had been taken by the old man himself, snatched from the bloody hands of defeated bannermen or be laid at his feet in tribute, as the foe surrendered to his victorious host.

And then, as he reached the end of the main hall, was a chair, almost a throne, set before a mighty banner. Far too large to be flown from battlements or carried on the field, it nearly covered the wall. A field of deep green, edged in gold and set in the middle, was a gauntleted hand of silver, clenched into a fist. The banner of The Knights of the Silver Hand. A knightly order, who drew their ranks from the second and third sons of noble families and were the de facto rulers of the lands around their headquarters and wherever they built chapter keeps. Their armies had been the bane of dark hordes and ambitious lords, for centuries.

The old man eased himself into the chair, which was his right, as Grand Master of the order. He stared into the darkness, his thoughts on war. There had been rumors of the Elves pushing their claims into nearby human kingdoms. He might have one last chance to die in battle. He might be old and aching but he was still strong enough to swing a sword or weld a lance. But when age might rob him of that strength, he did not know.

A sudden, almost self mocking smile split his beard. He couldn’t help but wonder what she would think of such thoughts. His ears twitched, as if he was listening for the sound of claws clicking against the flagstones. He had been careful getting out of bed but she always seemed to know, when he left her side. How much long, would he be alone with his thoughts, before she came looking for him? Once he had forced his brothers to accept her, they had joked that she was his shadow or that he might as well marry her.

Memories of the past flooded the old man’s mind, broadening his smile into a genuine one. The road to holding the rank of Grand Master had been a long one but he knew the very day it had started. No it was not the day of his birth or the day he had become a page to a Knight of the Silver Hand. It wasn’t even the day he earned his spurs. It had been one summer day, near to his twenthy-sixth birthday, when he had been sent to join the garrison of a northern chapter keep. He had been riding along a forest, an old forest, a dangerous forest. One his brothers often had to ride through, to clear out beasts and monsters.

The sound of battle had drawn him and the roar of the troll, made him put his spurs to his horse’s flanks. He hadn’t noticed the bodies, when he burst into the clearing, only seeing the hulking green brute, clawing at something screaming on the ground. Never faltering, he lowered his lance and slammed the wicked point into the monster’s spine, The creature roared in pain and flailed its long arms, knocking him from his horse but the first blow had been crippling. Not that it still hadn’t taken a series of slashing blows, to put the creature down for good. Only then, had he noticed the broken bodies on the forest floor, were covered in grey, black or white fur, with lupine faces and claws of their own.

Werewolves. The forest people, who kept to themselves and defended their homes with all their primal strength. Men twisted into beasts by dark and terrible Gods or so the tales told. Others said they were the servants of dark powers. Some claimed they were but simple monsters, with a hunger for the flesh of men and elves alike.

He wasn’t prepared for all the tales to be nonsense or at least mostly. Or to learn, when he found the lone survivor, a badly injured she-wolf and bound her wounds, that werewolves had their own code of honor. That his saving her, being neither kin or packmate, meant her life was now his. Until the day one of them died, his enemies were hers and that she would do as commanded, no matter how dangerous the task he set her.

Such a chance meeting, which would see him duel his brothers, take on almost suicidal quests, to prove he wasn't tainted and to plunge deep into enemy ranks. To see his renown grow, until he was a chapter master, due in no small part to his strange companion and in the end, Grand Master of the order.



So I am looking for someone to play the part of the female werewolf. If your interested and would like to continue world building, please send me a PM