The Red Dragon's Muster (Solo) [Archive]

Ozoric

02-16-13, 03:08 AM

The day was still young when Ozoric Newalla woke. With a groan, he pushed himself out of his bed, slipped on his slippers, and trundled swiftly to the open doorway that lead out into the cold stone corridor beyond. In between footsteps, he wished he could for once just lie-in. He wished there was a moment’s peace between day and night, to just stare up at the ageing beams and dream of grandeur.

With the sound of the Storm Hold still ringing deep in the catacombs of the Drakengard, the young initiate abandoned all hopes for a slow day’s patrol or studious vigil in the library. Its portent so soon in the day was out of sync with his duty to call the dragons in at dusk. It told him that danger, and war, and strife had come. His heart beat quickly, heavily, and with a crack of thunder.

“Ozoric!” the first face he saw roared.

The youth skidded to a halt, barely containing his momentum with a flail of his arms and a grit of his teeth. He teetered back and forth for a moment before slouching into a resting stance.

“Captain, what in the blazes is going on?” his dark eyes glinted in the torchlight, the eternally blazing brackets in the corridor casting doubt on his shrewd features.

Aelfric was a giant of a man, built out of stone, some said, but with a heart as kind as any. He towered above even Ozoric’s height, and leered down over him with a gruff, bearded frown. He was already wearing full armour, thick steel plates bearing sign of rust, age, and scars of battle. His brow was beading with sweat, and his breathing was fast and short – signs he had had tried, at least, to run to Ozoric’s chamber.

“We are going to war, Ozoric.” The statement cut through the tension like a knife, and left Ozoric bewildered. “Conflict has broken out in Corone, and the Knight-Provost has deemed this an opportunity to…” he curled his lips with hesitation, “reclaim what was once ours.”

The horn called its solemn cry once more, causing both men to jump with a start. They pricked their ears and listened for almost two minutes, until the vibration and echo, near deafening, faded into a dull, yet still intoxicating rumble. Ozoric’s study of the Drakengard’s traditions, laws, and history told him that Aelfric was sincere – the Dragoon’s were mustering for something more purposeful and violent than sky patrols and wild dragons.

“What are my orders, Captain?” he said, his bewilderment fading with the overbearing need to serve, to be commanded, and to follow.

Aelfric extended a gauntleted hand with a smile, and patted his favourite charge squarely on his right shoulder. It was a heavy, roughshod gesture, and Ozoric buckled his knees beneath the blow. He tried to smile back, but grimaced instead.

“You, my good boy, are to do what you should have done a long time ago.”

“That is?” Ozoric frowned. He did not like where this was going.

“Report to the Knight-Provost. You are to be made a man this day!”

Ozoric

02-16-13, 03:28 AM

Ozoric ran at great speed along what seemed like miles of corridor, his heart racing quicker still in the wake of Aelfric’s news. He forgot, quite quickly, about all the long months of training, servitude, and squire hood.

“I can’t believe it…” he wheezed as he sped around a corner, and began to climb a soft slope up to the towers and aeries above.

He threw down the towers and walls he had built as a defence mechanism to shield him from the jaunts and teasing all initiates received. He abandoned the notion that he was just a servant, there to clean the stone and straighten out the armour; today, he was to be something more.

“I can’t…” he slowed as he reached the top of the incline, and paused to catch his breath, “believe it…” he clocked the bustle ahead, and rose slowly.

Before you could rise to the barracks, mess hall, and libraries in the upper reaches of the fortress, you had to traverse a maze like warren of store rooms, armouries, and long-abandoned quarters. At the heart of the warren, there was the Grand Hold – the greatest, and most precious stockpile of weapons and warfare the Dragoons possessed. It was a space almost as big as the Grand Hall, and bigger still than the largest of the libraries.

“Good gods…” he mumbled, taking in the movement, sound, and sights of the space beyond. He picked out the purple sashes of Dragoons, the crème coloured tabards of the blacksmiths, and the silver of the newly forged pauldrons of people he had never seen before.

It was often said that the Drakengard was too big to conceive, and now, witnessing the fortress come to life, Ozoric believed it.

He streamed out into the madness, oblivious to the chaos all around him. Dragoon and servant alike were unloading weapons and Platemail from the vast piles of crates that lined the hall. Dragon young fluttered back and forth in the shadows of the lofty roof, carrying netting and siege weapons in their razor sharp talons. The sound of their wings beating added percussion to the melody of cries and orders.

“Oi, Ozoric!” a young guard heckled as he caught sight of his friend. Ozoric would have stopped to talk, had he not been so engrossed in staying out of harm’s way. Jackson watched the youth spiral in and out of harm’s way, duck under a wagon, and then disappears out of sight beyond a large procession of men burdened with swords and scabbards. He shook his head, and returned to unstrapping a tarpaulin lain over a crate of paraffin lanterns.

“These initiates and their haughty ways,” he chuckled, which garnered a laugh from his fellow guardsmen.

In the Drakengard, all newcomers were given the sub-title of Initiate. It meant one was to be a dragoon, someday, but the day was still very far away. Though many would never make it, and become guardsmen, captains of the watch, or quarter masters, many did stay on the path. When one finally proved oneself, as Ozoric believed he had done many times over, one received the title of Lancer. From there, you progressed to Draken, Sergeant, Captain, Dragoon Regent, and then up higher still to the Knight-Provost Commander; the highest echelon of the Drakengard’s military structure.

Red Dawn

03-06-13, 02:17 PM

The night was fading as the sun teased the horizon with the first muted rays of daylight, turning pitch black to deep purple. The gentle sharp slopes of the Jagged Mountain range stood stolidly against the coming day, clinging to the soft pre-dawn solitude even as an amethyst halo formed around its peaks. Overhead the sky was as dark as ever, the dimmest stars vibrant and flickering alongside the brightest. In a world like Althanas, it was easy to forget that there was anything else out there. Dale Russell could bask in the dim glow of the stars and absorb the minutest of details presented, but each one was the potential sun that governed the solar system he once called home.

Having escaped the planet called Earth by the slimmest of margins; he had traveled through space for an unknown amount of time. There was no telling how long the void of space had been his only companion, wrapping its cold lifeless tendrils around the escape pod. An artificial slumber had kept his body and mind in a state of peace as he traversed the universe, leaving behind the pallid planet he had been created on and the war-mongering humans who had once called it home. As an android, his systems had been shut down and the length of time that had passed since his creation, the utter inhalation of Earth, and crashing on the planet of Althanas was a mystery. He put those thoughts aside though as he watched the furthest of the distant stars vanish from his sight, the sun rose and put to bed the diamonds of the night.

“Hey, wake up.” Dale grabbed the straps of leather that bound the horses to the back of his saddle and untied them one by one. Traveling from the capitol of Corone, Radasanth, to the Drakengard’s castle was a journey of almost a week; one he and the others had cut to only five days. It was easier to travel with a small squad, pushing the horses at almost all hours, and with an android that did not require any sleep. The rest of the squad were not sure why Dale was able to go with so little sleep, but they took advantage of it as much as possible; sleeping in the saddle and letting the newest Corone Armed Forces member lead through the night. “We’re almost there.”

Altogether the party was just five members; Firland, Gerard O’Doul, Jessica Bannister, Jack “silver-tongue” Sanford, and Dale “red dawn” Russell. Firland was a slim half-elven fellow with long black hair and a constantly mischievous look about him; a battle-mage within the ranks of the army. Gerard was as heavy set as a vanguard CAF member might be expected to be, with an array of weapons and a face as solid as the thick steel armor he wore. Jessica was a scout for the CAF, sporting only a thin set of leather armor and a composite bow as her weapon of choice. Jack, however, was a civilian contracted to assist with covert operations whenever needed. His multiple belts and unseen pockets held a key to any door, contraptions that could distract or blind, and more throwing knives than Dale had been able to count.

Rounding out the party was the android, Dale Russell. His heavy-set frame made him look almost as powerful as Gerard, minus the slew of weapons that clattered against heavy armor. He had only been out of basic training for the Corone Armed Forces for a month. Basic had proven that his abilities with the sword were nominal at best, the spear he was completely useless with, and when he was put in armor he might as well be fighting for the other side as clumsy as he was. It had been decided – much to his dismay – that the leather duster and hatchet he had come with had to go; he fought for his wide-brimmed western style hat though. In their place he had been given a full length, double breasted leather trenchcoat with thin steel plates sewn between the layers, and a cavalry sword. Across his thighs he still had his twin hand-crossbows, and the massive bowie knife tucked in its sheath across the back of his thick belt.

Dale shifted irritably in his saddle, trying to fidget with the chestpiece and position it more comfortably. “Still getting used to that I see?” Firland smirked and tore off a piece of bread, handing the other half to the android. “Not something I’m fond of either, luckily I have my specialization that keeps me from having to deal with any sort of armor.”

Chewing the bread he smirked, Dale just shook his head and tore into his breakfast. “How’s the magic coming along?”

“Fine.” Since his arrival in Althanas, a curious change had worked its way into the semi-artificial body of the android. At the core of the strange planet was something called The Tap, a once whole and fluid body of raw energy the people called magic. Splintered as it was, eons past, it warped its own nature and was able to be used by almost anyone in so many unique ways that there was no point in counting. Each person that wielded it called it magic, even if it did not appear the same or act the same way as the next person. Dale was touched by the Tap as much as everyone else, and with that soft caress came the abilities he had discovered over a month past. “Manipulating gravity,” he muttered, “I still don’t understand it. You said there were symbolic representations that allowed for magic to be cast; at least that was the last thing we were talking about last night. Perhaps, while we’re still an hour or so out from the Drakengard, you can explain and teach me more about that.”

The CAF has taken his hatchet and given him a steel cavalry saber and steel scabbard for it. They took his leather duster and gave him a guard's uniform, long leather trench-coat with thin steel plates sewn into the chest and back between the layers. They issued him a small iron heater shield without any paint or logo on it, as well as a pair of iron bracers with the symbol of the CAF embossed into them. Also, a pair of overlapping leather greaves that go from boot to knee. He still has his bowie knife, 2 hand crossbows, two belts with crossbow holsters, small quiver of 10 bolts, and cowboy hat. These changes will be requested at the end for spoils in order to be made permanent.

Ozoric

03-08-13, 12:56 PM

It took Ozoric nearly thirty minutes to climb the almost insurmountable stairway that lead to the Aerie. When he finally arrived in the narrow, ornate ante chamber, he was red faced, sweating, and about ready to give in. Though by all means a physically alert, well trained, and healthy example of the Drakengard’s rigid drill routine, the Knight-Commander’s tower was one trial a man could not surpass alone.

“When I get a dragon,” he grumbled, slapping his hand onto the left column. It was cold, long abandoned and left to time’s decay, and ill-fitting to the militaristic life the once splendorous palace of Dragons had now become accustomed to. “I am going to knock this thing down…”

For an awkward length of time, the initiate, soon to be lancer caught his breath. When he was quite recovered, he walked, ever so slowly, along the chamber’s length to the grand doors at the opposite end to the stairway’s rise. On the left wall, in pure gold, there were depictions of each previous Knight-Commander. At the end of the wall, there was some thirteen feet or so of untarnished, still radiant gold – for tomorrow’s victor, and the current title holder’s successors to be inscribed into history.

The right wall was a grand mural, one which showed the founding of the fortress, and of the Dragoons themselves. Centuries ago, when the Empire was at its zenith, the cavalry requirements of its standing army had become superfluous. When a country ruled its land, the only way for its military to evolve, quite naturally, was to take to the skies. Ozoric glanced over the multi-coloured depiction, frowned, and saluted.

“On wings of time we fly,” he said, with plentiful reverence. His voice, turgid, cold, and without experience, echoed throughout the chamber. It rattled down the stairway, to be heard for aeons through the cold depths of the Drakengard.

His dues paid to his ancestors, Ozoric advanced to the double doors. Softly, he knocked on the wood, and, after four heavy rattles, he stepped back. Patiently, and with a flick of his hand to free his hair from his eyes, he took to a militaristic attention, and waited.

What lay beyond, was a whole new slew of possibilities.

What lay beyond the door, was war.

Red Dawn

03-08-13, 02:11 PM

Drakengard was an impressive fortress built with the very stone of the Jagged Mountains, and riding up to it gave a clear understanding of why it was named as such. The darkness of the shadows cast by the peaks cast a pall across the citadel, with sharp pillars of mountain surrounding it. The multiple tiers of walls and towers seemed to have been built and rebuilt over time, offering a picture of depth and strength. Staccato levels rose ever higher the nearer the interior they got, with gaps of disproportionate distance between them that told Dale there were valleys between them. The home of the Dragoons was an amazing castle that mirrored the walls of the caldera around it. Whispers from his companions echoed his own thoughts; it was a good thing they were coming as guests and not enemies.

After passing through the massive gates and following the winding trail into the heart of Drakengard, the party found themselves at the base of the Knight-Commanders tower. It speared the low-lying clouds with the tip and supporting buttresses, daring to touch the skies above. Dale remembered and old saying he had heard a soldier say once; ‘Those that climb ever higher risk to fall even further.’ The man had been talking about the arms race and the continually growing power of modern weapons, but the sight before the android seemed to fit just as well. Gerard pushed aside the heavy wooden door and led the party inside and up the stairs.

“Got an easier way to get up these?” Dale said with a smirk towards Firland.

“I have no spells for flight, but I’m sure we can draw some stamina from Gerard here. You good with that big guy?” Gerard scoffed and shook his head as his metal shod boots clapped against stone steps. The battle-mage twirled his wispy mustache with a knobby finger, swirling the black and gray streaked hair as his face simultaneously took on a mischievous and bright look. He clapped his hands together and let the magic contained within and around him take on a light red glow, haloing his long fingers and thin wrists. The mountain of a man turned quickly with his hand on the handle of the maul across his back.

“Cut that out,” Jessica spat at the mage. The amber aura faded and Gerard turned back to the stairs, following them even as the rest of the party eyed each other. The scouts green irises were pointed beadily at Firland, but the mage just chuckled and shrugged. Dale and Jack stood back. If looks could kill the last place they wanted to be was between the two.

Halfway up the innumerable stairs Gerard began to fall back, his heavy armor weighing him down. He eyed the mage suspiciously as he passed, but Firland simply chuckled and shot that he had no such power as draining the ‘big guys’ stamina. By the time they reached the top the whole party other than Dale were winded, sweat beading on brows, and mostly hunched over to catch their breath. While they sought to regain their composure and strength, the android went ahead.

He touched the mural of the Drakengard past. It seemed that the men were going from common soldiers to cavalry, and from there to riding what he could only assume was a dragon. Without personal experience, or even pictures from the past or present to assist, he was completely unaware of what exactly a dragon looked like or the power it possessed. The first to arrive by his side was Jake, the bandana across his head stained a deeper red after soaking up sweat. “Looks like a shrine almost.” His observations were as much about the mural as they were towards the golden plaques and representations of men. “Probably old leaders and important generals, sure is a lot of gold to be lying around.”

“Making it out of here alive would be hard enough if you thought to steal it,” Jessica scoffed. “You’d have the Dragoons to contend with and the stairs down would be even harder. How about we just go meet the Knight-Commander and keep our hands to ourselves?” She chuckled and started towards the double doors on the far side of the chamber, the rest following close behind. Perhaps to steel herself, or maybe because she was still trying to compose herself, she took a deep breath before rapping on the doors. After a moment without an answer she shoved them aside and walked in.

“Good day, we are the squad sent by the Corone Armed Forces, you must be Knight-Commander Jacamar?” Behind her the doors were closed and the party waited for acknowledgment.

Ozoric

03-08-13, 02:38 PM

Ozoric’s hand reached out, a tentative fist formed clad in pallid, ochre skin. Whatever remnants of energy were in him from breakfast were long gone, burnt from his musculature and shed in sweat and tears. Before the young man, lay the future, a wondrous world of possibility. Behind him and down in the bustling darkness, the past. Neither was particularly welcomed. Ozoric was conflicted, even though excited surrounding his promotion had carried him on wings metaphorical to the very pinnacle of Corone’s kingdom.

Outside the confines of the Knight-Commander’s realm, clouds began to descend over the crumbling stonework. Long forgotten, and pigeon excrement covered watch posts remained bleak, embittered, and abandoned. Over the razor sharp Jagged Peaks winds cold and necrotic roiled, bringing with them scents from all across the world.

“Here we go…” he cheered all but silently.

He knocked on the hardwood door, its gold leaf shimmering with disturbance and splendour.

He knocked twice.

He knocked thrive.

Whilst he waited, he ensured his hair, long and bereft of timidity was firmly behind his ears. He padded himself down, to ensure his simple, rustic garb was aligned, and then he tucked his hands into the small of his back. It was the traditional stance of many a young recruit, regardless of the political and militaristic ideals which gave them desires and needs, and gold to die for.

“Enter,” said a voice, which the boy recognised instantly.

Knight-Commander Jacamar had been installed in the Aerie for the better part of three decades. Amongst the chronicles of the Drakengard, this was a feat most impressive; she had remained thrice that of any other, and her rule had brought the fortress out of many decades of slumber, neglect, and abandonment. The Emperor had been forced to listen to the dragoon when civil war broke out across Corone. They had made themselves heard, and the sound was riotous.

What she had done, most importantly of all, was to instil a sense of pride, duty, and vigilance in the occupants of the fortress. Whereas title and stature had been paramount before her arrival, now, duty was all. It mattered not if you were a mere stable hand, at the very bottom of the hierarchical ladder of the remnant of Corone’s past, or, indeed, if you were Jacamar herself…as long as you performed admirably, you were equal.

Ozoric Newalla, high born, and soon to be a dragoon, did not feel remotely equal. He sighed.

“Here we go…”

He pushed against the door, as if paraded to action, and felt the locking mechanism give way. Whoever, and whatever lay beyond, obviously expected his presence. It was a ceremony, a ritual, a tradition that expected its recipient to be in attendance. Ozoric got lost in the moment, bile swirling in his stomach, and sweat born of anxiety beading on his brow. His shrewd, battle-born features narrowed as he took in the context of the scenario beyond.

“Oh…” he mouthed.

The Knight-Commander, from behind her amaranthine desk, beckoned him inwards.

She was not alone.

Red Dawn

03-08-13, 05:30 PM

The group stood waiting for the woman behind the desk. She had her fingers tightly laced about each other, elbows on the table and chin resting atop her hands. The white blouse she wore was unadorned by any symbols of either lineage or rank and status within the Dragoons. Simple leather boots poked out from under the desk, showing the tight leather pants tucked into them up to mid-calf. There was something altogether vibrant and gentle about her bound hair, but the look on her face spoke volumes to the contrary. Her bright eyes were lances piercing into the soul of those that waited before her, her lights tight as she pushed them into her fingertips.

Dale looked to either side. His party was almost slack-jawed, staring blankly in her direction. Even Gerard showed obvious deference to the woman, his visor lifted on his helmet with teeth clenched beneath rigid cheeks. The android was not as affected by the Knight-Commander, and even feigned a smile as he let his black eyes drift about the room. He saw Jacamar’s eyes drift towards him before looking back at the others, and for a split-second he felt the weight of authority they carried. Luckily he did not possess the same biological mindset that granted her the same strength as she held over the others.

The room was dim and uninviting as a whole, despite the visage of Jacamar. She glowed like a diamond glinting and winking from the bottom of a murky pond. Behind her a banner with the symbol of the Drakengard hung, its ends slightly worn and tattered with time. It looked like it had been carried into battle many times and always returned to the room. A testament to the battle prowess the Dragoons commanded, as well as their loyalty. Along the walls were other mementos of the past. The skull of a monstrous creature with small horns and razor sharp teeth sat on a pedestal. An armor wrack held two suits, one obviously newer than the other. The weapons wrack on the opposite side of the room held a sword and other tools of combat.

“So… uhh… good morning, or maybe afternoon.” Dale said with a stutter, unsure what to say or do in such an odd circumstance. “Since you’re the only one here, I’d assume you are indeed Knight-Commander Jacamar. I am Private Dale Russell, of the Shadowed Company, Corone Armed Forced.” He clapped the shoulder of each member as he pointed them out, hopefully shaking them from their silence and reverence. “This is Captain Gerard O’Doul of the 5th Infantry Division, 115th Infantry Company; Sergeant Jessica Bannister of the Shadowed Company; Battle-Mage Firland of the CAF; and Jake Sanford.”

Without a word Jacamar shifted and nodded to the members, placing her hands in her lap and leaning back against the thick wooden chair. It was as if her demeanor changed. In doing so, the almost audible sounds of held breath being released came from each member of the group. “I supposed we’re waiting for—“

The door behind them opened with a slight shifting of the air. Dale turned to see the newcomer. He was a young man, average height and a small frame. A drop of sweat slipped from his forehead down his face as he paused with the doors still open. His red eyes moved slowly about the room, over the figures of the strangers, and Dale caught them for a moment. The way he moved suggested that he was not expecting them there, and the look in his eyes was that of confusion. The android shrugged and offered his greeting with a chuckle. “Those stairs are hell, aye kid?”

Ozoric

03-09-13, 03:02 PM

Ozoric, taken aback by the presence of outsiders, could only mouth a reply without quite managing to speak. When the Knight-Commander gestured for him to enter for a second time, he swiftly found his confidence.

“You get used to them, sir,” he said, his reddened brow and lanky form saying otherwise, “after the first few times, you stop wanting to jump from the tower to end the pain.” This got a chuckle from the gathered men, who, even in Ozoric’s limited experience, were military.

“This, gentlemen, is Ozoric Newalla.” Jacamar pointed to a small chair before her desk, as ornate as the centuries old décor of the chamber, and waited until the boy sat. “He, though young, is counted amongst the most keen of strategists amongst our ranks.” Ozoric blushed, and scratched his head, “if not the most brilliant logistical mind in our history.”

Ozoric could only wonder what he had done to deserve such high praise. In his duties as an initiate, he had overseen many changes and adjustments to the extensive supply network that had kept the Drakengard alive since its inception, centuries ago. In his eyes, they had been simple adjustments; logical steps to bettering productivity and reducing needless costs. He shrugged.

“I simply do what is asked of me as an initia-” Jacamar snatched his words from the air.

“Lancer of the Dragoon Guard,” the Knight-Commander continued. “An appointment made today, on the nineteenth day of the seventh month, before witnesses of the Imperial armed forces.” She gestured to each of the outsiders in turn, which told the boy all he needed to know about their presence there. “This is Private Dale, Captain O’Doul, Sergeant Bannister, Mage Firland, and…” she pursed her lips pensively, her extended fingers wavering with contemplation.

“Commander?” Ozoric erred.

“Mr Sanford,” she said at last, uncertain if the man possessed a title or not.

“A pleasure, good sirs,” he turned to Sergeant Bannister, “and ma’am.” They nodded to one another. Though her place in the army may have been a constant source of derision for her, in the Dragoon, women and men were truly equal; brothers and sisters to a common cause.

“They have come to request aid in an operation to which we, as the aerial cavalry of the dwindling Empire’s armed forces, are particularly suited.” Jacamar sat, and rested her gauntleted hands on the lion head engraved arms of her chair. From behind her desk, she appeared kingly, regal, and menacing; the cats were mid-roar, further augmenting her prowess.

“How do I fit into all this?”

“Well,” Private Dale said, standing to attention on queue. Ozoric’s ears pricked, keen to listen, and curious to come to an understanding as to why the Drakengard’s long standing oppressors had come to their walls after so many years of seeming isolation.

Red Dawn

03-19-13, 10:39 AM

“I’d hardly say dwindling,” O’Doul grunted under his breath. It was hardly an attempt at a whisper, and the harsh tone by which it came offered a wake of tense silence. The Knight-Commander remained pensive in appearance, but the twitch of her right eye gave away enough for the android. If there was a reprimand on her tongue she let it slip with a sigh, leaving her scolding eyes locked on the captain as he tried to look at anything else in the room. He looked more like a child who had just talked back to a stern paternal figure than a shocktrooper for the army of the Empire.

“What would you call it then? A rebuilding period or perhaps restructuring?” Jake’s silver tongue offered a blunt reply, but the civilian contractor had the leeway to make the comment. Not even the captain could touch him. A gauntlet tapped the back of the skinny man’s head, lightly reminding him to keep his thoughts to himself. It did little for the edgy vein within the room.

Dale snapped to attention, or as close to it as he felt like being, and smiled.

“It is our hope that you, the Dragoons of Drakengard, would assist in a mission of importance to the Empire. We have come in humility to request your aid.” The android removed his leather cowboy hat and let his dirty hair free of its stifling confinement. He could not get greasy hair or smell like a human would after a week without bathing, simply did not have the facilities to produce the effect – unlike his companions who were producing their own atmosphere for body odor. Dirt and dust on the winds and kicked up by horses after almost a week of travel certainly offered more than enough. “Somewhere to the south of here lies a city that was… liberated, for lack of a better word, by the Ixian Knights during the war. It is firmly within the bounds of the Radasanthia Barony, and as such belongs to the Corone Empire. We have requested that the aerial cavalry be dispatched in order to pin its location and tell us where it is.”

“Resistance expected? Type of community? What interest does it hold to the Empire?” Jacamar asked her questions with the air of authority that she was accustomed to. The information she wanted was no more or less than anyone in her position would have requested. Dale simply scratched the back of his head and looked to the Captain and Sergeant for assistance. Before Gerard could open his mouth Jessica was already speaking.

“We know that the place is a small village named Aventine, more a settlement that never developed much further in the years since people began to build it. There are a number of open fields surrounding it, farmland that those within tend. They are stout workers, better with a plow than a sword, and surrendered to the Knights when they arrived.”

“And,” O’Doul said as he took a step forward. “A wall was constructed around the heart of the village. It is a palisade, more or less, made with the limited supplies that they had on hand when the intruders arrived. We are expecting limited resistance, what little remains of an occupying force – perhaps twenty soldiers. Not sure what their stance within Aventine is, it could be one of peace or one of occupation, but they won’t want to give it up either way.” He cleared his throat and looked at the closed doors before turning back to Jacamar. “As for the Empire’s interest, we want it for the farmland as well as its position within our borders. While the brunt of the army has recalled back to Radasanth we are unable to send out anything more than patrols and specialized teams. Hence our arrival. Once we have the base to support the restructuring and rebuilding of the army we will be able to handle things like this with full companies instead.”

Ozoric

03-20-13, 08:33 AM

“So,” Ozoric stepped forwards, stealing Jacamar’s thunder with an inquisitive expression, “what you’re saying is…” he paused, for thought, and for dramatic effect. “You wish for us to ply our military strength to your reconnaissance mission?” He pressed his forefinger and thumbs together, an age-old sign of tentative thought, and cocked his head to one side.

Dale nodded. “They will not be able to defend against an aerial assault. Even if it is one or two dragons, it will be enough to rattle them, if not route them from Aventine altogether.”

Ozoric pursed his lips together. There was shortsighted merit to Dale’s thinking. It was atypical military strategy, to overwhelm, or surprise, in the hopes of contesting a geographical location quickly. Nobody except the cruellest of tyrants wished for a simple lightning strike to turn into a prolonged siege.

Jacamar smiled weakly. She had believed in Ozoric’s logistical prowess, at Captain Aelfric’s request. Her communication skills, on the other hand, left a lot desired. She leant forwards and rested on her palms. “Would you perhaps expand on that?”

He turned to her, and then back to the gathered party. He was centre stage now. He immediately felt uncomfortable, and more nervous than he had been on the ascent to the Aerie. He cursed himself silently for having spoken.

“It would be better to launch a pincer attack. Advance on the location’s main entrance with a ground force, say, some hundred guardsmen.” He tapped his lips with a hushing motion, as though he wished for his own train of thought to stop. He was astutely picturing the plan in his mind. “They assume we are unable to truly contest them, and rebuke our attack. We feign,” he made a gesture in the air like a dragon swooping, “and then from the rear, our dragoons descend into the opposite side of the settlement.”

Jacamar nodded appreciatory. There, she thought, was the keen mind Aelfric had discussed in length. She leant back into her chair, her reluctance, her unease, and her fatigue firmly in the past. The boy was doing her work for her, and that suited her well enough.

“Surely they’ll see that coming?” said the mage, his jittery disposition, and uppity stance gathered presence in the room. Everyone turned to him, nodded hesitantly, and then looked back to Ozoric for the reply.

“Seeing something as possibility and being able to respond are two different things entirely.” He pointed to the large map on the wall behind the Knight-Commander. “The Drakengard has existed in these mountains longer than any of you, or your families. We transcend history, and emperors, and wars, precisely because we are able to adapt, and respond, to whatever external forces threaten Corone.” This was because in essence, the Drakengard was beyond Corone’s laws and edicts. Though tied to the Emperor, and all that entailed, it had fought for freedom and independence too many times over the decades for even its most astute chronicler to recount.

“That has what to do with our request?” Dale retorted, wrinkling his nose. “I mean, sure, you’re well defended, and haughty, but what’s to stop the Ixian Knights from growing to the point where…” he smirked, “they fancy themselves a dragon or two to add to their ‘heroic’ corp.” The android felt confident in his question. Despite his lower rank, the other members of the Shadow force rallied to him.

Ozoric smiled. “I would love to see them try.” He turned to the Knight-Commander. “I believe we can accommodate the Empire’s request, if you can spare two hundred of the guard.” He counted something on his fingers, “the Silver Brigade, and the three strongest dragoon captains.” Jacamar frowned.

“You want to take Valaya into a conflict?” the name ran cold tingles down her spine.

Ozoric nodded. “There’s no better man for a rear-guard assault than he.”

She nodded in return. “Yes, quite…you will ride with him, and you,” she pointed to the troupe in totality, “will ride with the caravan of guard as they approach the front gate. Do you have any questions or concerns with that idea?” she raised an eyebrow to Dale.

Red Dawn

03-28-13, 01:08 AM

The acuity of the young man, Ozoric, was obvious. He had grandeur plans, a battleground in which to ply them, and the ideology of the Drakenguard to make them more than a dream. Past experiences of those that came long before him must have been drilled into his head from the beginning of his training as an initiate. Confidence from the man oozed as he spoke of the Silver Brigade, two hundred men, and three dragons. It was as if he had seen a chess board much more often than he had seen men go into battle. That was where Dale, and the others, had the upper hand in experience by far. The android had watched men be waded into battle and slaughtered, stepped through the bloodied mud to follow the same path. Sending men to war was something he did not enjoy. He enjoyed it even less when a child was at the head of the planning, especially one with the blessings of a superior.

O’Doul began to speak, but Dale held up his hand and silenced the man. It was not his place to do so, but the private was hardly done with his banter. The first sergeant opened his mouth and closed it, pondered, and then began to open it again. “Nope,” Dale said with a finger pointed at the man. The others simply furrowed their brows in his direction. “The audacity, I know!” He shook his head and looked at Ozoric and Jacamar. “This isn’t a game of chess, or castles, or whatever you call it. This is the lives of men. While I’m all for you risking those of your own Dragoons instead of us having to pull in two hundred Corone Armed Forces members, I don’t like it. And I doubt they would either.”

“You don’t think…”

Dale swung the finger to the woman and pointed at her. He shook his head as if quieting an argumentative child, much to the chagrin of the Knight-Commander. “Let me finish maybe?”

“Proceed,” she growled as she stood.

“Now, I’m not a strategist but I was a soldier and am one yet again. I know how it feels to be told you’re going to war, and against an opponent that’s done you no wrong. We came to ask for assistance, not force hundreds of men to fight civilians. I get outnumbering them will be advantageous, and dragons can tear them apart in no time. But we do want the settlement in one piece. If we wanted it raised to the ground we could have done that ourselves.”

Jacamar leaned on the desk and eyed the android. He knew she was trying to find a way into his soul with her piercing eyes. Even without the disadvantage of a human, he still felt uneasy in her gaze. “What do you think we could do then?”

“I’d propose that we scout the area from high above. We need to find their weakest spots. If you want to bring men to battle, we should go at it with as much knowledge as available. We can lure out the Ixian’s, or raid the village to kill them. I would prefer we at least try to surround them and offer terms of surrender.” The finger of hushing turned on Jake when he snickered. “As the representatives of the Empire we were picked for our specific qualities. Jake, Jessica, and I are very good at getting into places and espionage tactics. Firland can burn a place to the ground if he wants, but can also use magic in many others ways. Gerard is our muscle. We need to remove the Ixian’s, not plunder and destroy Aventine.”

Ozoric

03-28-13, 08:53 AM

Ozoric smiled with a barely contained glee. “Good,” he said flatly.

With a charismatic flick of his fringe, the youth turned to the Knight-Commander and bowed. Dale could only watch, taken aback.

“Valamar can wait. We will send the Skein Riders, as the Private suggested. I will ride with them, and we will report back to the Drakengard with our findings.”

Jacamar tapped the desk in thought. She nodded. “Agreed. I will muster the battalion all the same; I dare say it’s been too long since they’ve been drilled to within an inch of their lives.” She chuckled. Ozoric chuckled. Several of the gathered soldiers chuckled along nervously too.

“Forgive me, Private,” Ozoric turned back to Dale. “I’m always keen to see how the minds of those we come to work with tinkers away. My foray in life is strategy, and the application of knowledge, not brute strength, to the tide of battle.” This was a great source of pride for the Lancer, despite his reluctance to bear arms himself. “I think you would make a fine rider yourself.” Amongst the Drakengard’s occupants, this was as good a compliment as an outsider would ever receive.

Dale tried to smile, “I don’t much like heights.” The fall from that altitude would test even his robust body.

“It is something you get used to,” Ozoric smirked, nodding his head from side to side, “or not, as some of us find out.” He still found it particularly troublesome to clamber up the Storm Hold – the Drakengard’s tallest tower. The wind’s howl alone sent shivers down his spine, never mind the two mile vertical drop through the fortress and into the depths of the caldera below.

“I’ll take your word for it,” the private chewed his lip. “So are we agreed?” he looked between the boy and his mistress. He then looked to his companions. “Do you have any thoughts, Firland?”

The party remained silent. Ozoric watched nervously, tapping his fingers together with a staccato rhythm. He shuffled from foot to foot, trying very hard to remain standing dutiful. Whilst he had a penchant for academia, and for oration, he had little patience for the post debate tension that often proceeded the making or breaking of a deal.

“I believe we are in agreement,” said Captain Gerard in a gruff, appeased tone. Dale, realising he was quite done usurping the man’s rugged authority, stepped back from the circle. “When do you recommend we take...” he mused, “flight?” he shrugged. His battered uniform caught the dim light of the room’s dancing candles.

Red Dawn

03-29-13, 10:51 AM

“Immediately,” Jacamar said with another knuckled rap on the desk. “We are nearing mid-day, and can send out the vanguard of troops now while the dragons speed ahead of them to gather intelligence. Once that is retrieved they will report back to the Drakenguard. I will have it scribed and delivered by my fastest riders. In the meantime, it would be best if you left now. You can travel through the night, assuming your… squad has the stamina my dragoons do. If not, we can offer you a ride with the lead wagon in the caravan following. That would allow you to arrive early morning in Aventine, if it is in the area you assume.”

Flippantly the captain shooed away the Knight-Commander’s lightly disguised slight. “We are always ready to be on the move. We can get our horses readied and our gear packed on them again in a matter of an hour.”

“Just a half hour more than it will take my guard to be on the move. I will have them delay if necessary.”

“No need, I’m sure we can keep that time frame,” Gerard almost growled in response. If it was not obvious before, the boiling counter-retorts had offered the impurities to rise. The dragoons of Drakenguard were a fiercely independent group, used to being allowed their own freedoms and no demands from the Empire. Dale could see the tensions between the Corone Armed Forces Captain and Drakenguard Knight-Commander. He was torn as to which, technically, was of higher rank and importance to the Empire itself; a private, supplementary military force commander or a ranking officer of a national army. In the end, it did not matter either way. “This meeting is adjourned then? Good, we will see your men on the battlefield.”

The small group of Empire agents opened the door and left Ozoric and Jacamar to whatever details or secrets may still be left between them. As they exited Dale turned back to the boy with a smile. He pulled out a cigarette and flicked his lighter to its tip. After puffing out a couple small clouds of biting smoke and he muttered with a wink. “A fine rider, nonetheless. I look forward to seeing how your strategies play out in this mission.”

Dale closed the doors behind him and turned to find the other four a few steps away, staring at his beaming grin. He took another puff and let the smoke linger in his powerful lungs before expunging it in a steady stream. “Well,” he said with a shrug, walking up to them. “That seemed to go well.”

Gerard instantly grabbed him by the loose cloth of both shoulders and slammed him against the wall. He felt the sting of the iron plate sewn between layers of leather on his back as it struck. A tile of the mural fell to the floor from the force, and in that split moment the captain’s face was within inches of his own. “You ever want to overstep your bounds again, private, and I’ll break you in two. I won’t have some cocky know-it-all trying to assume my authority again.”

Jessica’s light touch on O’Doul’s outstretched arms loosened the white-knuckled grip but did not cause it to unfasten from the leather uniform. With a smirk Dale looked at her shaking head, into her hazel eyes, and back to his commanding officer. He lifted his cigarette to his lips, took a short drag, and let it seep from his mouth as he spoke. “Jacamar is quite a woman, isn’t she? Seemed to have all of you in lock-step in a matter of seconds when we walked in. If I hadn’t broken up the reverence you’d have just gone with whatever she said. Count your blessings, if you believe in that sort of thing, that I was here to overstep my bounds and get us a city instead of burning rubble. So fuck you.”

“You’re company might be the espionage wing of the military, and have much different rules for bastards hardly worth calling Corone Armed Forces troops… but when I’m in charge you’ll do as I say and how I say, or you’ll be on your ass in the slums.” The venom behind the words was accompanied by another sudden thrust of flexed muscles. Gerard let go of the android and he dropped as his feet rested gently against the ground once again. The captain stormed ahead and started down the stairs, leaving the others of the party staring at Russell.

“You are just looking for a reason to die, aren’t you?” Jessica shook her head, as did Firland. Jake simply smiled and nodded in acknowledgement, as if pleased with Dale and the situation. “Keep out of his hair, and we’ll be done with this in no time.”

“Bastards of the military? You heard that right?” Dale puffed another cloud of smoke before walking through the remaining members of the small party. “He thinks that highly of not just me, but you and Firland as well. Which can only speak volumes about his respect for Jake. We’re nothing to him, just pawns to play the game. He can keep his dedication, misplaced morals, and sense of duty.”

“All the same, we’re stuck working together… let’s not make it worse than it has to be.” Firland offered as he followed Dale to the stairs with Jessica and Jake. “All in all though, you handled yourself well in there and that shouldn’t be forgotten or overlooked. No matter what his report for this mission will say, ours will be the counter.”

Ozoric

04-09-13, 11:59 AM

An Hour Later
The Great Hall of the Drakengard

By the time Ozoric reached the feasting hall, he was exhausted. The intensity of the meeting with the Corone Armed Forces officers had tested his wits, and the long ascent, and subsequent descent, had tested his stamina. He slumped onto the end of a long bench near the entrance arch, devoid of colour, and fell forwards onto the food stained veneer.

“Lords of the skies have mercy on me,” he groaned. He buried his head into his crossed arms, and half drifted off.

For centuries, the Drakengard’s innumerable ranks dined in the Great Hall. It was immense, three long tables wide, and each gangway between each table wide enough to march down five wide. It could seat thousands, though the bustle of the fortress seldom allowed for such revelry. Only the high festivals and truly triumphant victories were marked with a grand moot – a celebration worthy of inscription in ancient times.

Ozoric sighed, and looked up at the lofty ceiling. He picked out small shadows fluttering back and forth, and the sight of draconic kin calmed him. He found strength in the fact that they were so close, wherever he was. He sat upright, slapped the tabletop with his facedown palms, and pushed himself into a regal stance. He flicked the hair from his eyes, turned north, and strode towards the counter at the far end of the hall.

Running back and forth behind the long, steaming worktop, the man known only as the Verger was hard at work. As he became visible, less and less like an insignificant speck and more like a respect-commanding figure, Ozoric grew more and more hungry. The smells that washed over him were indescribably appetising. He scanned the counter, left to right, and silently mumbled the names of at least seven different dishes. In times of war, the Drakengard kept a constant supply of food ready for the various guard rotations. At any moment, a flock of dragoons or a battalion of watch could descend feverishly.

“Ozoric!” an all too familiar voice welcomed. The Verger, his white head bobbing as he nodded in the boy’s direction, beamed a broad, oath like smile. “How did it go?”

He wrinkled his nose. He was not surprised the Verger had heard. Seven men shared the name Verger in the Drakengard. Each occupied a highly involved position. Over the years, though they differed slightly physically, Ozoric had become certain they were the same all-knowing person. He waved non-chalant.

“I am now a Lancer.” He nodded. “I have to ride out at first light.”

The guffaw filled the hall with a thunderous echo. The well-girthed man slapped his thighs with his trusty ladle, gestured to a pot to his left and ushered Ozoric closer.

“I daresay you’ll need some of this, then!”

Ozoric approached, ignoring the platters of cold meats, exotic fruits, and sweet pastries. The tendrils of white steam lured him in, and the moment he took a deep inhalation of the aroma, he discovered why. His eyes widened.

“Flax Roast Stew?” he half-squalled. All the emotional fatigue of the meeting drained away. Colour, for the first time in days, returned to the boy’s cheeks. He felt warm inside, even though he was still empty and shivering from the ill-heated corridors that lead to the feasting hall.

“Freshly made catch brought in by my favourite dragon.” It was fact that the Verger’s favourite dragon was any dragon that brought back meat with its limbs, gizzards, and flesh intact. He was not one for cooking with charred carcass.

“That will keep me going for a week!” Ozoric gloated. He did not turn down a bowl and spoon when the Verger produced it from behind the counter, and he shovelled in three mighty helpings without a thought.

A little doubt at the back of the Lancer’s mind began to seep into his conscious. He was sure he would need more than good stew, and good company to see him through whatever mustered on the horizon.

“There’s steamed sponge for afters, too,” the Verger said, suddenly more interested in a wayward goblin that was spilling a pot of beans than his favourite young upstart. Ozoric nodded with thanks, but shrugged when he realised he was now out of the man’s view.

He turned, carried his bowl back to the nearest table, and tucked in. Within an hour, he was sound asleep and dreaming of hell-fire and wing beats over the shrub lands of Northern Corone.

Red Dawn

04-16-13, 08:24 AM

Dale put down the brush and gently touched the warhorse on its neck. Even the delicate attention given in smoothing its black silk coat was hardly enough to still its nerves. Steel shod hooves danced against the worn stone of the stables, rapping constantly with the other beasts of burden. The android, like his companions, had been readying their mounts for the final leg of the journey ahead. Most were strapped and saddled, ready to be ridden on a moment’s notice, but Dale lingered. He had never seen a warhorse so uneasy – though he had very limited experience with them – and it unnerved him that his would not stand still. It snorted a plume of air, the warmth turning to a small cloud of fog in the chill air of Drakengard. Dale continued to coo at the beast and stroke its side as he began to strap on his saddle and sheath the weapons across it.

“Don’t much care for this cold, high altitude… and the presence of dragons has ‘em startled even more. Even a horse bred and trained for battle can sense those fire-breathing beasts.” Firland offered his reason and muttered an incantation in a deep, unearthly voice. He raised his hands and spun both carefully and slowly either directly before darting them through the middle of a slowly forming circle. A blue light of magic energy formed a sigil, the lines soft dancing flames. When all the lines had been connected he spread his hands apart and let the sigil open up across the area as it touched the ground. “It’s the only spell I know to help troops in battle in a passive way,” he explained as he moved about the stables, pressing the halo of light around his hands on each horses head. “I can burn a house to the ground from four hundred yards, or turn a castle gate – wood and iron alike – into ash. But when it comes to steeling nerves this is about it.”

He shrugged with a smirk as he let the light sink into the face of Dale’s horse last. Instantly it stopped prancing in place, but continued to shake its head and snort. The android wondered what dangers a dragon posed that scared a warhorse more than being charged into lines of pikes.

“I’m going to get some grub, I’ll be back in a bit. Don’t leave without me.” Firland and Jake both chuckled and nodded as they watched the private walk away.

It took some time winding his way through mostly empty corridors and into quite a few doors that had offered only an empty room staring back at him. After opening one door, with a few women hardly dressed, he had been given a scolding and told to wait. One of the warriors, once fully clothed, guided him to the feasting hall and extended an arm after opening the door. Dale looked into the massive gathering area, down the rows of solid tables, and smiled. He nodded to the woman as she took her leave and called after her with a wink. “Still think you look better when we first met.”

The long table of delicacies cooked for the empty hall was laid out like a small banquet, readied as if an army was waiting to descend at any time. He pointedly roamed from one end of the table to the other, all the while being watched by a sturdy man wielding a spoon like an unsheathed sword. “Don’t know what half this stuff is…” The Verger grunted. “What’s this flat bread and garlic paste?”

“It tastes good with this meat and a couple of these shoved in it.” Dale smeared the paste inside the pocket of bread and shoved it full of leaves and some seared slivers of meat. He looked at the man to ask what animal it had come from, but thought twice when he locked eyes. It did not seem to matter either way. “Suppose I’ll take two of ‘em ‘nnn…” he contemplated before scooping up a spiky fruit with a pink skin and something that he hoped was an orange. “Thanks.”

Dale sat across from the napping Ozoric, quietly slipping onto the bench and gently putting his plate on the table. A tiny, ugly thing tapped his arm and he looked into the red eyes of a small tusked creature. It was wearing a leather jerkin and a pair of shorts to fit more like a long tunic than pants. He offered a mug with a toothy grin, or grimace, Dale could not tell properly. Taking it he sipped it with relief that it was as malty as he had hoped and took a bite from the pocketed creation. “Tiny orks roaming around handing out beer,” he muttered through a mouthful of unidentified meat.

With a spoon he poked the cold, half-finished stew in front of the boy. It almost wiggled and Dale was happy he had not accepted a bowlful himself. If it looked like that in a bowl after an hour, he did not even want to know what it would do to his stomach. After cutting open the orange rind to find a deep crimson center, the android pushed away his plate. He tapped the shoulder of the slumbering Ozoric with his spoon and took another bite. “You have some strange fruit and food ‘round here.” Dale offered with a smile and finished off the mug, only to be tapped on the shoulder by the little green thing again with a full mug ready. “And that thing… the tiny ork. What’s going on with that? Know what, don’t want to know. At least he smells better than the bigger versions. We’re about ready to head out, finished saddling up and been more than an hour since we were supposed to leave. You ready for this kid?”

Ozoric

04-18-13, 05:43 AM

Ozoric smiled weakly at Dale. He had been off in the clouds, half-asleep, and quite happy to drift off before his newfound companion had appeared. He righted himself, flicked his languishing fringe from his eyes, and nodded.

“I am perhaps a little too eager to see grasslands burn and wing beats pound the air.” His sense of the dramatic was lost on the private. He shrugged. “I am as ready as I will ever be.”

“Good,” Dale said flatly. He continued to chew through the flatbread, the garlic turning to pepper, and then to a try, tingling, winter vegetable after taste. He had not noticed the grated roots in the bread until the paste had worn off. It was tastier than he had expected.

“They are called Innari.” Ozoric pointed to the counter. Dale followed his finger, mid mouthful, and made the obvious connection. “You might refer to them as goblins.” Ozoric strongly disliked the term.

“Do they work here?” he enquired.

“Work is a degenerative term where they are involved…” he mused. “When the civil war broke out in Scara Brae, we helped relocate them from the island. Many went mad, but some, the ones that still dwell here, came to Corone.” Ozoric scraped the bottom of his bowl with his spoon, indecisive about another helping. “Back then, the Drakengard was as much an aid force as it was a military branch.”

“So they sort of,” Dale tried to put his thoughts to words, “feel obliged?”

Ozoric chuckled. “Yes, that is the gist of it. They work in the kitchens, for the most part, but many are also potent scholars, sorcerers, and artisan. They do things with leather and scale mail no man can.” He reflected on his armour, and how he would feel wearing it, despite his oath.

“Can any of them wield a sword?”

“The Innari were a proud, auspicious part of Scara Brae society. They were nobility, each and every one of them.” Ozoric stood. “The goblins that dwell here are pacifists, through and through.” That was precisely the reason he admired them so. He made for the counter. “Their kin who remained on the island, however, are quite the opposite.” His stew had stalled whilst he nodded off. He decided he was still hungry, after all.

The Windlacer Peaks teethed with roving war bands, and the eastern shores of Scara Brae had earned the nickname the Goblin Cove to that end. The Innari in the Drakengard received sanctuary in exchange for a comfortable life free of the persecution. In the eyes of the dragoons, they were as good as a brother.

Dale watched the youth refill his bowl, sprinkle the contents with a helping of salad greens, and pick up two flagons with his free hand. When he returned, he could immediately smell the alcohol. It was so strong it stole away all sensation in his nose. The heat of the hall, given life by steam vents beneath the flagstones and from the vast fireplaces on the western wall seemed insignificant compared to the warmth he felt in his stomach.

“What the heck is that?”

The sound of metal against wood filled the air. Ozoric sat. “It is called Dragon’s Gut Ale.” Sure enough, the side of the tankard displayed a crudely etched mockery of the brewery’s insignia. It was especially made, and imported, just for the occupants of the fortress. “We send it to the brewery in Radasanth, with a little extra ingredient, and they provide us with a send-off to battle worthy of a dragon’s rage.”

Dale took the tankard eagerly. He had no compunction about drinking before riding out.

“Is it strong?” he asked, though he was sure he knew the answer already.

Ozoric ran a finger down his facial tattoo. “I was so drunk last time I partook, Captain Aelfric, my closest friend, had little trouble marking me with these without me coming close to feeling it.” He wrinkled his lips into a cruel smile. “In fact, I did not even remember I had them for three weeks.” It had been a particularly worthwhile cause for celebration.

“What do they mean?” Dale asked, impressed, but not enough to show it. He sipped the beer. It tasted of paraffin, and then briefly liquorice, and settled on a peaty after taste. It was almost indescribably nourishing.

“They show my birth right. In the draconic tongue it reads ‘one born of wing and woe’.” He began to eat his food. The lettuce crunched noisily. The spoon clashed against the roughshod pottery haphazardly. In between mouthfuls of hummus and spicy potatoes, Ozoric mumbled something. “It means…” he chewed, “I am half dragon.”

The half-dragon washed down his half-chewed mouthful with a glut of ale bordering on excessive. He smacked his lips with far too much satisfaction, the growing fondness for the private easing up the boy's usual rigid, private, and secretive nature.

Otto

09-06-13, 08:21 AM

The Red Dragon’s Muster

Plot: 17

Story: 5
You have the beginnings of a good story arch (two, really, following each character) here. Some intrigue, ongoing revelations, a dash of foreboding... mostly, marks are deducted simply because it is incomplete.

Setting: 7
Richly described, and used to impart a certain, underlying austerity to the hold/story. Found it odd that Gregory’s squad didn’t encounter anyone at all on their way to see the Knight Commander, though. No guards? No other members of the hold bustling around?

Pacing: 5
The thread moved a little slower than was comfortable reading. It was an interesting story, but also a little difficult to get through. Possibly because it was constantly slow, constantly dragging its feet; this isn’t necessarily a bad thing, but if you don’t toy with the pacing, it can get wearisome (same goes for keeping things frantic and snappy all the time).

Character: 21

Communication: 8
Nice work, both of you. Dale – each member of the company had a distinct voice (though the mage was, perhaps, a little cheesy. As did the members of the hold, Lancer – Ozoric, the Verger... though, perhaps, not so much Jacamar.

Action: 6
Credible, though perhaps slightly less character-filled than the dialogue. Nothing really spectacular, but full of ‘little things’ that lent personality to the story (such as Ozoric passing out in front of his stew). Found it odd that Dale could so readily subdue his superiors in front of Jacamar, though (even if Gregory had something to say about it afterwards). Interrupting certainly fit Dale’s character, as I understand him... but I doubt a captain, a rank that usually carries with it the command of a full company, would have tolerated it any time or place whatsoever.

Persona: 7
Jacamar was strangely lacking in persona. Really didn’t know what to make of her – Ozoric hardly seemed to consult her before committing resources, and she didn’t really show much personality during the discussion (or input). But a fine job with the other characters, barring examples already given above.

Prose: 19

Mechanics: 7
Duffy: exceptional work. Errors were at a minimum, and there was a cadence to your writing which gave it life. Dale, your weakness was pretty much just an abundance of typos and misplaced punctuation (look up where to place commas – particularly for conjunctions and after introductory/transitional phrases – and when semicolons are appropriate). If you would like a more detailed list, I would be happy to provide one upon request.

Clarity: 6
There were some minor issues here (though nothing major). Example: when Dale’s group said they had somehow lost a city, then proceeded to refer to it as a “small village”. Also, there were one or two instances where hyphens could have been used to improve clarity (“soon to be lancer”, “pigeon excrement covered watch posts” - are they covered by guano? Or are they made of guano, and covered...? Also, post 16: “‘Don’t know what half this stuff is…’ The Verger grunted. ‘What’s this flat bread and garlic paste?’” – this is arranged so that it is the Verger speaking, not Dale). Easy enough to interpret after a quick re-read, but that disrupts the flow.

Technique: 6
The thread had a little casual, basic metaphor and the like, and although it seemed it was somewhat absent from your posts, Lancer, they also showed a little more flair and character. Perhaps some sort of foreshadowing could have been used to connect this thread with its next instalments; something to simultaneously bridge the gap and pique the reader’s interest.

Wildcard: 5
As an unfinished thread, this lost some points. Interesting read, but it felt like a giant build up with no payoff.

Total: 63/100

Lancer Newalla receives 850 experience and 170 gold.

Red Dawn receives 600 experience and 130 gold.