RP:The Silver and the False Jarl
Part of the Silver Oaths Unrelenting Arc
Ancient Snow Covered Gates, Frostmaw
The area clears slightly of the thick trees, and you find yourself standing before two huge gates. The once-destroyed gates have been recently restored to their former glory, beautifully wrought from Frostmaw's finest Blue Iron and encased in shimmering layers of ice from the constant snow-laden winds, they stoutly defend this ancient pathway while bearing a story in archaic sigils upon their front. For those that can read the words and images, the doors tell of the once beautiful lands beyond them that met a cruel end through betrayal, mistrust, and honorless combat, an ancient war that nearly destroyed three races, and left a land in ruins for ages after, ruled over by a cruel, otherworldly king. You may enter the path to the west, or you can head east into the thick woods.
Hildegarde had met with Sabjorn before they led their party of warriors out to the snow covered gates, easily spotting the awaiting raiding party. They were on the move but had stopped at the sight of the approaching group, Hildegarde being the smallest out of the lot. “Keep that package safe,” she instructed Sabjorn before taking another step forward. He bent forward and pressed his hand to her shoulder, as if to stop her, “Are you losing your wits?” The knight smiled and shook her head, “I mean to treat with the Magnar. Words are as powerful as our might,” she replied with, offering him a little pat on the hand before wandering a good distance away from her party. The Magnar took her lead and followed suit, flanked by two burly giants on either side.
“Hail,” she said, with a raise of her halberd. The Magnar nodded in response, thick fingers rubbing his bristly beard in thought, “Shouldn’t ye be turnin’ tail, lass? Go runnin’ back to yer wee Queen, eh? Leave warfare to the men.” The Silver offered the Magnar a courteous smile and dip of her head, “Are you afraid to do battle with a mere girl?” she asked him, head tilting some as she waited for a response from the Magnar. But he only laughed heartily, even holding onto his belly as if it may rupture. “Wench, yer fight is in the birthing bed! I could put many o’ my strong sons in yer belly, if that’s what yer wantin’.” The Silver’s expression fell as she righted her posture, fingers flexing around the shaft of her halberd, “I would sooner kill you than let you touch me,” she said icily. “I am, however, giving you the opportunity to surrender peacefully and return to the city for trials by combat, as was offered to you previously. Frostmaw is a city of honour and you have slapped that in the face with your inability to face a trial, but perhaps you have regained some honour?”
“Hah! I’d love a good fight,” the Magnar replied before turning and marching right back to his gathered giants. It would seem that they had no other option but to fight. The knight returned quickly to Sabjorn and the gathered knights, addressing Sabjorn: “Sound your warhorn, gather their attention. I would speak with them,” she said, glancing behind her to see the Magnar was waiting patiently: he would not attack with their backs turned. ‘Haroooo’ resounded through the snowy air, the giants falling into silence and looking to Hilde and Sabjorn with rapt attention. The Silver lifted her halberd and pulled it back to wallop against her breastplate, repeating the motion to make a resounding beat: “Will you stand with me?” she asked of them, “Will you follow me? Believe with me? Would you bleed with me? Would you die with me?” she asked them to the beat of metal on mail, her words met with a resolute roar in the affirmative. “Let me hear your war cry!” the dragon demanded, turning to look at the Magnar and his assembled raiding party. Three more warhorns sounded from her own party, as the knight cried out defiantly before charging toward the enemy party: “Frostmaw! Queen Satoshi!”
“Magnar! Jarl Anbjorn!” the enemy party screamed as they met her charge, bigger legs carrying them to her in fewer steps than she needed. Sabjorn, Gunjar, Onjar, Tormund and Hilde clashed with the opposing force first. Gunjar and Onjar were brothers by blood and war: wearing their beards in a similar fashion, braided and with the same ornamental rings through them. Onjar heaved his battleaxe and Gunjar swung his fierce hatchets, both of them a force to be reckoned with! But they were met in the battlefield with foes equal to them, heaving their battleaxes, their swords, and their warhammers. The ringing of metal on metal was enough to make the knight wince at the sound, but she ran forward, determined to meet the Magnar on the field and slay him. She thought if she could slay him, then the other giants would perhaps lose heart and cease their fighting!
Sabjorn had fallen behind, defending her flank and caught up in battle elsewhere.
The Magnar was busy laughing heartily, swinging his barbed warhammer in a wide and vicious arc; making even the most seasoned of the giants step back in trepidation, understanding how lethal a blow would be from that hammer, after all! The knight felt the burn in her lungs as she ran towards him, her attention turning to Tormund, “Tormund! Flank!” she cried, in an effort to have him defend himself more ably, “Tormund, Tormund! Defend your fl--” the knight never finished her sentence – even though it was predictable – as an enemy warhammer came crashing down into her side, tearing her off her feet and throwing her across the battlefield. Indeed, Hilde was just a little toy to these giants! Meagre in size and ever so light in comparison to them, she flew across the field and landed with an ‘oomph’, as well as a crack of metal and bone.
Gasping for breath, she pulled herself up to her feet and moaned when she felt the pain surge through her chest: she suspected she had cracked or broken ribs. Her eyes assessed the field, the giants locked in battle with one another, all well matched until the Magnar came swinging down. He was bigger: bigger than Gikal and Drargon, those were the biggest giants she had seen in Frostmaw! But the knight did not have the time to watch what would happen, as she heard the creak of boiled leather, the inhale of someone preparing to strike with a heavy weapon: a foe was attempting to kill her.
“Die, wench!” the giant hissed, swinging the warhammer down as if to squish her head and entire body into mush. Hildegarde, however, was determined to be defiant to the very last! She would not meet her End here, not now, not when she had men shedding their blood for her and their Queen. Winterheart rose up and gave a seemingly musical ‘clang’ as the weapons met, her muscles flexing in her arms as she strained against the might of the giant. “I…” she groaned, “am…” she strained against his might, arms pushing up until her arms were upright and straight, “a dragon!” she roared, arms surging to push the warhammer up and off her halberd. One arm pushed forward to wallop the weapon against his gut, before she turned her body in a swift circle: body going low like a dancer on ice, swinging her halberd so the axe-head would slice right through the chunk of meat that made up his ankle.
Ankle and giant separated, the body falling backward with a distinctly surprised scream as blood gushed from the wound. “You…! You bloody wench! Wha…!” he yelled many more curses at her, seemingly going into shock at the loss of his foot. Hilde had no time for a screaming enemy though, she had a Magnar to find and kill.
Sabjorn yelled to her, “Alive?” and found his reply, “Aye!” That was all he needed, as he continued to battle with a persistent giant. When looking at the pair, they did look awfully alike: perhaps a distant relation? Again, this was not the time to think about that. She had to keep going, she had to resolve this quickly. Onjar and Gunjar were struggling with a giant similar in size and build to the Magnar, holding two battleaxes as if they were nothing! He seemed to be constantly aware of where the brothers would strike, able to just parry it and strike them with the butt of his axes. It was plain to see that he was toying with the brothers, allowing them to tire and giving them a false hope before he would slay them and bathe in the victory of it. The Silver marched in that direction, choosing to save the lives of her men first, rather than sacrifice them needlessly: she did not wish to see her men die this day!
Winterheart heaved up in her hand and twirled with readiness, singing as it cut through the air. Once the knight was close enough, her legs took up a stance and she cried out as her halberd swung in a wide arc, reaching up behind the knee of the giant and cutting deep to send him off balance. The giant fell to his knees with an angry roar, blades swinging out in defiance. “End this!” she commanded to Onjar and Gunjar, “Do not allow these men to toy with you,” she warned, before marching off again. Her giants were handling themselves well enough, shedding blood but surviving. She saw Brynjolf batter an enemy giant with a severed arm, wondering if it came from the giant who he was beating to death.
The feats of war were ones she’d rather not see again for a little while.
A cry of pain distracted her from her thoughts and pulled her back into the battlefield, seeing Sabjorn’s gut gored on what appeared to be antlers. The knight’s face contorted into one of surprise and shock, bewildered as to how it happened, until she saw the Magnar tear back his ‘crown’ and put it back atop his head. Sabjorn groaned and tumbled backward, thick hand pressed to his gut to stem the flow of blood in an effort to save his own life.
Hildegarde screamed out angrily at the sight, her march turning into a jog, which turned into a run, which only further turned into a sprint towards the Magnar. She screamed defiantly, “Elenor! Sabjorn!” the names of those she lost – or feared she had – due to her own lack of skill, or that was how she saw it. The Silver flew for the Magnar, uncaring about their size difference as she flew for his legs and slammed her body against his in an effort to try and take him down. It certainly put his balance off some, but it did not make him keel over as she had wished. In fact, the Magnar only laughed and shook his leg, as if he were a dog getting rid of the fleas that rid his fur.
The Silver dropped to the snow and the Magnar pressed his foot down on her armoured chest, leaning down to address her: “You fight well, for a wench,” he said with a toothy grin, “but what would it take for ye to join my side, hm? Leave that bitch o’ a Queen. I’ll make ye my Queen, if ye fancy it.” Hilde squirmed beneath him, hand clamped on his foot as she feebly attempted to push it away but to no avail. “Never,” she whispered, causing the Magnar to compress on her chest as he leaned down, “Eh? Speak up, lass!”
The knight realised that her opportunity to strike was now. She may very well be killed in the process or before she could actually do it, but she may as well strike now than wait for him to press the air out of her. “Never,” she breathed, forcing him to lean in more as he scowled, beginning to shout, “For all yer screamin’, ye sure love to whisper now, ya stupid bitch!”
What the Magnar did not realise, however, was that Hilde’s free hand had gripped the hilt of Oathkeeper and had wrenched it free. She snarled with effort as she jerked upright, blade whistling through the air as it sliced into the flesh just below his knee. The Magnar howled with pain and jerked away from the knight, Oathkeeper still embedded there. He attempted to stomp back down on her chest but the knight rolled away and forced herself back to her feet. “Come ‘ere, ye bitch!” he cursed at her again, but the knight ignored him, ducking through his legs as he made to swing at her with huge fists. Her hands gripped Oathkeeper and dragged it out of him, arm swinging in a wide arc as one extended to balance her and her body dropped low in one smooth, fluid motion to slice the tendons at the back of his heel, forcing the giant to lose his balance and fall to his knees with a howl of pain.
“You would have been wise to have knelt before your Queen,” she said, but her voice was hollow and almost quite sad. “You are a threat to Frostmaw and a threat to the true Queen of the city. I cannot abide this threat and thus am charged with executing you. Magnar Anbjorn,” the knight said more loudly, sheathing Oathkeeper and picking up Winterheart from the snow, “I sentence you to death. May you find peace in your End,” she told him, lifting her halberd and swinging it down in a swift motion to sever head from body, watching as it dropped with a loud and wet thud; leaving a grisly trail as it rolled a little in the snow, droplets of blood falling from her halberd’s axe-head.
Her chest burned with an aching sensation and each breath set her lungs afire, but she had to check if her men were alive; if they had made it through this without major injury. “Alive?” she called to them, following Sabjorn’s lead in showing only minimal care in their questions, but having a more caring intent and attitude.
“Aye!” Gunjar and Onjar sounded off, followed by Tormund and Brynjolf. Sabjorn sounded off last, blasting his warhorn to conclude their fight. The knight sighed and staggered across the field, halberd sinking into the bodies of their fallen foes for fear they might still live. More faces to see when she closed her eyes. Another sleepless night. “Sabjorn,” she called, “given that you’re alive, get off that lazy backside and put that head away. Our Queen deserves a trophy for our efforts,” she said, her voice remaining quiet and yet it held a strength to it.
The raiding party had been smashed: many of the Magnar’s men having fled in the face of battle. Showing their true natures as craven men who would think better than to rise against Frostmaw and her Queen.