Just something I wrote one afternoon...
Posted: Wed Jan 11, 2012 6:11 pm
Well the other day I had a bit of free time and didn't know what so I just sat down imagined up a little story. I don't do much writing and I'm naught that good in it either, so I'd really love some advice from the more experienced of you (thinking Mirimaran). Brace yourselves, here it is:
A green and golden flag, picturing a spear adorned with three stars, fluttered in the gentle breeze. It rose tall above the city of Fordhall under the darkening clouds, mounted upon the highest tower of the palace. Beyond it were the vast rolling hills of Greenshire; lustrous grassy fields dotted here and there with patches of trees.
Yonder the hills, a black line disturbed the peace. Thousands upon thousands of men were marching towards the city. They had come from an unknown land somewhere past the mountains, and now with all the panoply of war they were coming to attack his home.
Ralph donned his hauberk, the cold steel rings biting against the bare flesh of his arms. He slipped his belt and frog around his waist. He stopped for a moment. The fear for what was about to happen grew in his mind. His stomach ached with anxiety. He could feel the adrenaline pulsing through his veins, preparing him for fight or flight.
He resumed arming himself, putting on his arming cap and helmet, fastening the sword to his belt and sheathing the small hunting knife given to him by Ulrich. He then grabbed his shield from the other side of the room, sliding the guige strap over his shoulder.
Finally he took his spear in his hands and walked out of the cold dark room that he had once called home. He knew he would never come back. There was no way he would survive this battle, let alone the war.
Stepping out onto the street, Ralph joined the flow of warriors heading towards the outer defences. The city was built on three levels each encircled by a massive wall. The first level grouped together all the lower class citizens, as well as most of the military buildings. The second, higher up on the hill, housed the richer citizens. The third level at the very top of the city, and by far the most heavily fortified, encased the king’s palace in an array of towers and battlements.
Ralph was headed in the direction of the outermost wall which would be their first line of defence. That would surely be destroyed within the first day of fighting; that was, if there was even going to be a second.
After it was captured, the majority of the soldiers were to retreat to the second level and continue the fighting from there. Ralph, however, was not in that majority; he was to be in the minority that had been given the order to stay behind and ambush the enemy soldiers in the city streets. There was of course no plan for them afterwards, as everyone knew that the men in his group would be killed.
Frustration welled up within him. Why was he selected to be in that minority? It could have been anyone. Why was he chosen for certain death when the other soldiers were allowed to live?
The reality was that he stood absolutely no chance against the enemy’s professional soldiers; he was just a common man, levied into the local militia to defend his home. Defend his home. At least he had something to fight for, to die for. Also, he realised that he was not at such a disadvantage than he thought. They had distributed armour and weapons to the militia. His maille was not of the best quality, his was spear rusty, his helmet dented.
Yet he had his father’s sword by his side, his hurriedly made his shield that he had put together when he had heard of the approaching army. He wished he could have made the rest of his gear too; that was something he intended to remedy in the future. If there was going to be a future.
But over all it was not as futile as he had first thought, he would just try to avoid any direct confrontations.
Continuing down the road, he saw all the last minute preparations, someone repairing some links in his hauberk, another sharpening his axe, and more men hurrying about doing this and that. But what really caught Ralph’s attention were all the women and their children fleeing from the edge of the city, trying to get away from all the chaos and find shelter within the palace. He thought about them, the ‘innocent’ people, all going to be killed or abused mercilessly. They couldn’t do anything to defend themselves or prevent the inevitable. But he could. He could try. He had to focus on the small positive things; what could keep him going. He did have a chance. A small chance nevertheless, but still a chance.
He came to the end of the street into a square where a captain was directing troops. He was sent to the eastern wall section next to the gatehouse. Marching up the steps of the rampart, he continued along the wall for some hundred feet, and then took his place among the warriors.
He saw, through their ranks, over the huts and fields below the walls, some three miles away still, were the enemy; a black mass of troops stretching for thousands of feet in every direction. Standing out from the thick of troops were huge war machines accompanied by beasts of the like he had never seen.
His palms began to sweat, and the knot in his stomach grew tighter.
Why was he doing this? It was horrible. He had no choice but to risk his live. Then the thought occurred to him: if he had had a choice would he have done so? Why did he fight? Defending his home of course. But the thought didn’t drive him. He’d never really enjoyed living here, nor had he accomplished much in his life. And now it was all going to end. None of that mattered now. The fight had been brought to them and he had to concentrate upon the task ahead. He would worry about that later. For now, he simply listened to the quiet before the storm.
A green and golden flag, picturing a spear adorned with three stars, fluttered in the gentle breeze. It rose tall above the city of Fordhall under the darkening clouds, mounted upon the highest tower of the palace. Beyond it were the vast rolling hills of Greenshire; lustrous grassy fields dotted here and there with patches of trees.
Yonder the hills, a black line disturbed the peace. Thousands upon thousands of men were marching towards the city. They had come from an unknown land somewhere past the mountains, and now with all the panoply of war they were coming to attack his home.
Ralph donned his hauberk, the cold steel rings biting against the bare flesh of his arms. He slipped his belt and frog around his waist. He stopped for a moment. The fear for what was about to happen grew in his mind. His stomach ached with anxiety. He could feel the adrenaline pulsing through his veins, preparing him for fight or flight.
He resumed arming himself, putting on his arming cap and helmet, fastening the sword to his belt and sheathing the small hunting knife given to him by Ulrich. He then grabbed his shield from the other side of the room, sliding the guige strap over his shoulder.
Finally he took his spear in his hands and walked out of the cold dark room that he had once called home. He knew he would never come back. There was no way he would survive this battle, let alone the war.
Stepping out onto the street, Ralph joined the flow of warriors heading towards the outer defences. The city was built on three levels each encircled by a massive wall. The first level grouped together all the lower class citizens, as well as most of the military buildings. The second, higher up on the hill, housed the richer citizens. The third level at the very top of the city, and by far the most heavily fortified, encased the king’s palace in an array of towers and battlements.
Ralph was headed in the direction of the outermost wall which would be their first line of defence. That would surely be destroyed within the first day of fighting; that was, if there was even going to be a second.
After it was captured, the majority of the soldiers were to retreat to the second level and continue the fighting from there. Ralph, however, was not in that majority; he was to be in the minority that had been given the order to stay behind and ambush the enemy soldiers in the city streets. There was of course no plan for them afterwards, as everyone knew that the men in his group would be killed.
Frustration welled up within him. Why was he selected to be in that minority? It could have been anyone. Why was he chosen for certain death when the other soldiers were allowed to live?
The reality was that he stood absolutely no chance against the enemy’s professional soldiers; he was just a common man, levied into the local militia to defend his home. Defend his home. At least he had something to fight for, to die for. Also, he realised that he was not at such a disadvantage than he thought. They had distributed armour and weapons to the militia. His maille was not of the best quality, his was spear rusty, his helmet dented.
Yet he had his father’s sword by his side, his hurriedly made his shield that he had put together when he had heard of the approaching army. He wished he could have made the rest of his gear too; that was something he intended to remedy in the future. If there was going to be a future.
But over all it was not as futile as he had first thought, he would just try to avoid any direct confrontations.
Continuing down the road, he saw all the last minute preparations, someone repairing some links in his hauberk, another sharpening his axe, and more men hurrying about doing this and that. But what really caught Ralph’s attention were all the women and their children fleeing from the edge of the city, trying to get away from all the chaos and find shelter within the palace. He thought about them, the ‘innocent’ people, all going to be killed or abused mercilessly. They couldn’t do anything to defend themselves or prevent the inevitable. But he could. He could try. He had to focus on the small positive things; what could keep him going. He did have a chance. A small chance nevertheless, but still a chance.
He came to the end of the street into a square where a captain was directing troops. He was sent to the eastern wall section next to the gatehouse. Marching up the steps of the rampart, he continued along the wall for some hundred feet, and then took his place among the warriors.
He saw, through their ranks, over the huts and fields below the walls, some three miles away still, were the enemy; a black mass of troops stretching for thousands of feet in every direction. Standing out from the thick of troops were huge war machines accompanied by beasts of the like he had never seen.
His palms began to sweat, and the knot in his stomach grew tighter.
Why was he doing this? It was horrible. He had no choice but to risk his live. Then the thought occurred to him: if he had had a choice would he have done so? Why did he fight? Defending his home of course. But the thought didn’t drive him. He’d never really enjoyed living here, nor had he accomplished much in his life. And now it was all going to end. None of that mattered now. The fight had been brought to them and he had to concentrate upon the task ahead. He would worry about that later. For now, he simply listened to the quiet before the storm.