Ranger
01-24-09, 05:54 PM
The hallowed halls of Pandemonium’s Fist were still in the pre-dawn hours. Very few roamed the tunnels of the intricately designed infrastructure within the mountain, those that were awake moved in a state of heightened awareness. Under the guise of early morning trade they met, a handful of men selected by the drow, Ranger Nailo. He was Second in command of the once grand clan of the Red Hand, though complacence and apathy had ravaged the group and the number of loyal followers had withered. The few that remained after the loss of the great leader Ithermoss were left in a state of disarray, the draken lord who established the clan had long since left them leaderless and without a guide. It was the time of darkness for the Red Hand.
“Good morning,” Ranger said as the three men slowly moved into the small room that had been carved from the rock of the mountain fortress. He placed his worn, calloused hands on simple oak table before him. Those hands had worked in the tunnels, mined the rich ore that rested in the walls and in the depths of the hidden stronghold. Hard times and the loss of economic sanctions forced the prophet to put aside his beloved pick axes and take up the mantle of war. It was the banner of the Fist that the drow proudly displayed on his chest, a red fist dripping blood painted across his black leather, steel studded jerkin. “You loyal few have been selected to move with me against the Corone government. They have systematically reduced our strength and power, have removed our trade embargo on raw goods and no longer accept our clan as a threat. If we allow this disrespect and subterfuge against our very way of life we allow them a victory, and they will see the Red Hand whither.”
“We will not wither.” The hushed and abrupt words of the young Akashima native, Yakazuni, brought the silver eyes of the drow on him. He was a barely an adult in human standards, strong and brave he was an expert with the over six foot re-curve bow he carried with him everywhere. A single three foot arrow from the weapon was enough to puncture through nearly anything, including armored plates and most thin shields. His older brother carried the same weapon, Kakinami, who was also waiting for instructions and the reason for why he had been called.
“No, we will not, that is why I have called you three to join me.” Ranger’s face was drawn and somber as he turned to look at the other two men. “We are going to begin raiding the road north of the Fist. Caravans of supplies, government officials, and the raw materials we once sold are being brought back and forth from Radasanth to the country through this route. Once the command of the economic strength was made possible by the Red Hand alone; I intend to make it so again. We will be leaving as soon as you have prepared, we strike this morning.”
~*~
The light of dawn built as it slowly stretched over the mountain range south of Radasanth, casting a dark shadow across the valley below. The edges of the darkness touched a line of trees opposite a small thicket, covering the well worn path between. From the copse a pair of silver eyes peered, waiting and watching as a lone coach worked its way towards the position. The emblem of Corone was proudly pronounced along its flank, a symbol often only reserved for the nobles of the country. Ranger turned to the three men with him and nodded solemnly. The always powerful grasp of the Corone government was slowly strangling the Red Hand, the clan of merchants and propaganda inferred anarchists. The drow was one of many that were beginning to fight back. His melancholy outlook on the lackluster appreciation for hardworking men and women that supplied the majority of the economy had changed to rage, and as the Second of the clan he had the power to retaliate in full. Swords of those with him and his own were drawn as he slipped a mischievous smirk across his sharp features. When the coach slowly passed from one shadow to the next the drow waved his hands to either side.
It was the shadow of the Red Hand that these usurpers of the economy were passing through.
The group waited for the wagon to pass by, gathering the unsuspecting target into an area directly before the group. One of the two horses pulling the carriage fell with an arrow as long as a man’s arm protruding from its head. The spray of blood and eerily sickening cry of the wounded beast was quickly followed by a similar sound from the second mare. The slim patch of road was suddenly a scene of chaos as confusion consumed the driver and the guards. Remorse was far from the prophet, the men before him were committing a crime and he was avenging the many that they were exploiting.
“Each his own,” the drow spat without looking at the men with him. They understood the command, unquestioning loyalty and devotion spurred their confidence. Ranger did not look to see what was to come of the other three men, or of the guards outside of those spilling from the carriage. A flood of armored men poured from inside, a torrent of steel and swords. Hanging onto the back a man in half-plate armor leveled a crossbow at the lead figure of the men that were sprinting towards his charge. The steel headed bolt came screaming through the still morning air, only to meet a stream of pure light shot from the gray hand of the prophet. “Your copious and callous means of exploiting the working class are at an end! Lay down your weapons or die guarding the keeper of the wealth you have illegitimately stolen!”
In a state of fury at being attacked none of the men took heed to the calls of the sprinting drow, removing swords and shields in preparation instead. A grim determination painted their rough faces, a determination rivaling that of the drows own drawn visage. As a prophet this was not a task he took lightly, seeing and committing acts of murder against those following order was not a concept he took pride in. He had given a warning, had called for the men to drop their arms though, and they refused without a question as to their intent.
Ranger’s fleet stride brought him to the group of soldiers first. A sword arched towards his head as he circumvented the lead soldier. The swipe was strong; a blow meant to kill, but the drow deftly dodged the assault and instead lunged towards the man whose plume proclaimed him the captain and commander. The clash of steel on the blades of Hromagh was undeniably the loudest of the encounter, the first attack that would renew a war. Fluid motions snaked the prophet away from attacks by the shielded man. His sword caught his opponent sword, was deflected by the expertly manipulated shield. The conflict raged as more sudden bursts of sound resounded around Ranger, his fellow members of the Red Hand were engaging the soldiers.
A quick slash away from the shield and the man had exposed him, a sudden respite in the back and forth battle between Ranger and the captain. The steel longsword struck an edge of the coach and wedged itself deep in the black lacquered wood. A blade caught the inside of the shield and pushed it away, the second was forced to its hilt through the scale-mail and the commander’s chest. Ranger turned as soon as the blade was removed from its makeshift fleshly sheath and charged the next guard engaged with one of his followers. With unexpected two against one odds the battle would quickly turn into a slaughter and be finished without a single loss to the members of the Red Hand.
Closed to Christoph
“Good morning,” Ranger said as the three men slowly moved into the small room that had been carved from the rock of the mountain fortress. He placed his worn, calloused hands on simple oak table before him. Those hands had worked in the tunnels, mined the rich ore that rested in the walls and in the depths of the hidden stronghold. Hard times and the loss of economic sanctions forced the prophet to put aside his beloved pick axes and take up the mantle of war. It was the banner of the Fist that the drow proudly displayed on his chest, a red fist dripping blood painted across his black leather, steel studded jerkin. “You loyal few have been selected to move with me against the Corone government. They have systematically reduced our strength and power, have removed our trade embargo on raw goods and no longer accept our clan as a threat. If we allow this disrespect and subterfuge against our very way of life we allow them a victory, and they will see the Red Hand whither.”
“We will not wither.” The hushed and abrupt words of the young Akashima native, Yakazuni, brought the silver eyes of the drow on him. He was a barely an adult in human standards, strong and brave he was an expert with the over six foot re-curve bow he carried with him everywhere. A single three foot arrow from the weapon was enough to puncture through nearly anything, including armored plates and most thin shields. His older brother carried the same weapon, Kakinami, who was also waiting for instructions and the reason for why he had been called.
“No, we will not, that is why I have called you three to join me.” Ranger’s face was drawn and somber as he turned to look at the other two men. “We are going to begin raiding the road north of the Fist. Caravans of supplies, government officials, and the raw materials we once sold are being brought back and forth from Radasanth to the country through this route. Once the command of the economic strength was made possible by the Red Hand alone; I intend to make it so again. We will be leaving as soon as you have prepared, we strike this morning.”
~*~
The light of dawn built as it slowly stretched over the mountain range south of Radasanth, casting a dark shadow across the valley below. The edges of the darkness touched a line of trees opposite a small thicket, covering the well worn path between. From the copse a pair of silver eyes peered, waiting and watching as a lone coach worked its way towards the position. The emblem of Corone was proudly pronounced along its flank, a symbol often only reserved for the nobles of the country. Ranger turned to the three men with him and nodded solemnly. The always powerful grasp of the Corone government was slowly strangling the Red Hand, the clan of merchants and propaganda inferred anarchists. The drow was one of many that were beginning to fight back. His melancholy outlook on the lackluster appreciation for hardworking men and women that supplied the majority of the economy had changed to rage, and as the Second of the clan he had the power to retaliate in full. Swords of those with him and his own were drawn as he slipped a mischievous smirk across his sharp features. When the coach slowly passed from one shadow to the next the drow waved his hands to either side.
It was the shadow of the Red Hand that these usurpers of the economy were passing through.
The group waited for the wagon to pass by, gathering the unsuspecting target into an area directly before the group. One of the two horses pulling the carriage fell with an arrow as long as a man’s arm protruding from its head. The spray of blood and eerily sickening cry of the wounded beast was quickly followed by a similar sound from the second mare. The slim patch of road was suddenly a scene of chaos as confusion consumed the driver and the guards. Remorse was far from the prophet, the men before him were committing a crime and he was avenging the many that they were exploiting.
“Each his own,” the drow spat without looking at the men with him. They understood the command, unquestioning loyalty and devotion spurred their confidence. Ranger did not look to see what was to come of the other three men, or of the guards outside of those spilling from the carriage. A flood of armored men poured from inside, a torrent of steel and swords. Hanging onto the back a man in half-plate armor leveled a crossbow at the lead figure of the men that were sprinting towards his charge. The steel headed bolt came screaming through the still morning air, only to meet a stream of pure light shot from the gray hand of the prophet. “Your copious and callous means of exploiting the working class are at an end! Lay down your weapons or die guarding the keeper of the wealth you have illegitimately stolen!”
In a state of fury at being attacked none of the men took heed to the calls of the sprinting drow, removing swords and shields in preparation instead. A grim determination painted their rough faces, a determination rivaling that of the drows own drawn visage. As a prophet this was not a task he took lightly, seeing and committing acts of murder against those following order was not a concept he took pride in. He had given a warning, had called for the men to drop their arms though, and they refused without a question as to their intent.
Ranger’s fleet stride brought him to the group of soldiers first. A sword arched towards his head as he circumvented the lead soldier. The swipe was strong; a blow meant to kill, but the drow deftly dodged the assault and instead lunged towards the man whose plume proclaimed him the captain and commander. The clash of steel on the blades of Hromagh was undeniably the loudest of the encounter, the first attack that would renew a war. Fluid motions snaked the prophet away from attacks by the shielded man. His sword caught his opponent sword, was deflected by the expertly manipulated shield. The conflict raged as more sudden bursts of sound resounded around Ranger, his fellow members of the Red Hand were engaging the soldiers.
A quick slash away from the shield and the man had exposed him, a sudden respite in the back and forth battle between Ranger and the captain. The steel longsword struck an edge of the coach and wedged itself deep in the black lacquered wood. A blade caught the inside of the shield and pushed it away, the second was forced to its hilt through the scale-mail and the commander’s chest. Ranger turned as soon as the blade was removed from its makeshift fleshly sheath and charged the next guard engaged with one of his followers. With unexpected two against one odds the battle would quickly turn into a slaughter and be finished without a single loss to the members of the Red Hand.
Closed to Christoph