The Devil's Wake: Shades of Grey
Uhm...this is a rp that I used to do. It got through to the end of the first of four planned parts of a series which represented the four seasons. It was a pretty amazing. Probably the best I've personally been a part of, and it was a real shame that it just didn't work out. I decided to write a novel out of the story that I had planned starting from scratch. I'll be using the same characters that the players created just rewritten to match the also rewritten lore, and plot. My goal here is to make it more streamlined and more intricately detailed than the rp version.
I'd just like those who had taken part of the actual rp that if you feel as if I've done a wrong by using you're character or if you don't like the changes I've made, although I had asked a few of you for permission first but knowing my scattered mind I probably forgot a majority of you, that you should speak up. Send me a pm, and I'm sure we can work something out.
I've already got the first two chapters typed out, so I'll probably just release a page every few days. Some of the content is a lot more graphic, so I'll decide later whether or not it would be appropriate. Honest critique is more than welcome here. Really, I'm in desperate need of it. If there's anything you think I should fix, or any suggestion that you'd think would make it better feel free to give it me straight.
Alright, without further adieu. Here goes nothing.
The Devil's Wake: Shades of Gray
Freckles of snow began to fall gently from the sky onto the dead canvas like fields, adding a thin palate of white to the brushes of browns, silvers, and reds. The Graydales, the Deveredene in the old tongue, was a forsaken expanse of
infertile land that stretched from Dragonrock, to the Frozen North. Nothing grew here, and nothing lived here save for the emaciated, and mad Graymen who were nomads in this treacherous realm.
The plains thundered with the rattling clamor of iron armor, and hooves beating against wet earth. The guttural screams, and curses of thousands of soldiers echoed throughout the north together like one harmonized cacophonous choir. Banners, and standards from nearly every corner of the realms could be seen flying above the tempest of blood, and steel like a rainbow myriad of heraldry.
Tristan, a knight, had his platoon bear the pennons of his family; Azure base with a white stag. It was the sigil for the House of Cyril. Donning the same design upon his surcoat, which was worn over his steel cuirass, and if it wasn't for the mix of blood and grime he would have looked rather handsome as he lead his men into the crimson storm of swords.
Where is he? Dark silhouettes seemed to dance on the surface of the bronze band that was steadfastly wrapped around Tristan's finger, as he firmly tightened them together against the velvet lined hilt of his bastard sword bringing the blade down upon the shoulder of a Sandi-Garian. The gurgling death rattle he gave rose above the rest. His sword had lodged itself within the soldier's esophagus, and the man grasped for as little air as he could. Using his shield, Tristan pried the man off of his blade, and pressed on.
Last edited by Awean8; 07-24-2012 at 10:11 PM.
The participating armies formed a hand across the barren fields of the Graydales. The Sandi-Garians, or what they would prefer to be called The Insurgent Alliance, defined the basis for the palm. The Anglician forces created the fingers, and were trying so desperately to swallow the palm like a clenched fist. In wedge formation, Tristan lead his troops through the space between the thumb, and index cutting down anyone who would oppose them.
The Insurgent Alliance was mainly made up of the great trading hub, Sandi-Garius, and it's allies that line the rest of the Glass Coast. Mostly rabble. Merchants brandishing the swords they used to sell. Farmers with pitchforks. Fisherman with spears, and nets. Once in awhile Tristan would see a column of Anglicians burst into a plume of flames. Alchemist's fire searing a long cord across the fields pungent with the aroma of melting flesh.
Amidst the fighting he had lost his helmet revealing his coarse blond hair, and face covered in dirt and spots of blood. Bringing his blade above his head with an extended arm he cleaved his enemy's skull. The bitter cold only now could be felt against his cheeks, as he saw thin expanses of white mist exhume from his lips as he exhaled. Exhausted from fighting, every stifling breath felt like barbs were filling his lungs. He felt a biting sting against his skin as the layer of sweat that had gathered became stiff, and frozen. Winter had come far sooner than had been anticipated. Where is he?
The ring that he wore gleamed through the shadows that were cast by the struggling soldiers within this desperate waltz. It was made of bronze, or copper, perhaps even pewter. Tristan could never remember for certain for he knew it wasn't very valuable, in the standard economic sense. Sentimentality has no place in war.
Clinching his teeth, the blonde knight swatted away the aculeate blade of a halberd with his shield. He planted his feet forward and drove his sword inward crucifying the poor man. The halberdier fell backwards, before being trampled...
to the death by the heavy boots of the mass columns of soldiers. Where is the prince?!
Battered, and weak he rose his bruised shield-arm up yet again to soften the momentum of the crashing waves. Pressing it's steal surface against the crammed Sandi-Garian forces, he pushed on. The boots of he, and his men sunk into the mud as they pumped them like pistons slowing only to raise up swords to decollate opposition.
“Ser,`we've broken through their lines! Their center infantry is routing!,” Lieutenant Lucina bellowed from the platoon's right flank. “Keep pushing! We can't afford to falter!”, Tristan said blade rose to the setting sky as he rallied his troops for a final assault through the breach in the enemy's lines. “We search for our prince.”
Picking up the pace the platoon swiftly slaughtered the remaining routing soldiers, and charged through the gap into the fields. Spears, and pikes covering the skies like a thicket of pines the battle continued with even more ferocity, and wrath. “Volley! Shields, men!”, arrows fell from the sky by the thousands as Tristan laid low to the ground with his shield covering his face and torso. Many of his men were killed in the attack leaving corpses that appeared like pin cushions. Three bodkin arrow heads had pierced through his shield and into the inside just barely jabbing his arm. “Stand! Charge!”
Tristan's heart palpitated to swift time signatures, as he panted heavily during the charge. Running, his body bruised under the burdens of battle. The volleys of arrows continued to fall, as his platoon made it's assault across the field.
From the corner of his eye, he could see one of his comrades fall violently into the mud as an arrow had eaten a path between his eyes, and through the skull. Trickles of
Last edited by Awean8; 08-05-2012 at 06:08 PM.