-
Ledgerto and the Magical War Hammer Since it has been revealed in another thread that I am in possession of a certain war hammer, I thought it would be to your advantage to know from wence it came.
Sometime ago, in my zealous youth, I came across a severely wounded warrior. He was immence in stature and compare greatly to the legendary Goliath. As I gazed into his pained green eyes and blood matted hair, I took pity upon him not knowing whether he be friend or foe (Oh, the foolishness of youth).
Being a young maiden alone in the countryside, I approached cautiously to offer aid. He tried sending me away, warning that if I aided him, my life would be placed in great peril. Not one to be easily intimidated, I persisted, telling this great bit of masculinity that I knew well the area about and could safely guide him to shelter where he might be healed.
He rose gingerly to a somewhat upright position and placed his arm about my strong shoulders. Slowly we krept to a secret place he limping tenuosly from a wound to his thigh, me sagging under his massive bulk.
Such a battle he must have seen. How brave he must be. How handsome his green eyes....
Well, enough of that, there was work to be done. We slipped quietly behind a wall of emerald gree grape ivy and into a small dark cave. I had played here with my childhood cohorts, imagining Aladin and the hoard of theives, great shaggy lions, and dragons guarding the treasures of the past. Now this place of fantasy became a sanctuary, a place to hide my wounded warrior.
As we entered our hidden domain the mighty warrior heaved a great sigh and collapsed in a heap, carrying me down with him.
With all my might I pushed to free myself from his dead weight. My God, how heavy he was! I could scarce breath.
Finally, near panic, I was able to free myself. I quickly set about gathering the nessecities of the wounded one; clear spring water, ash, and medicinal herbs from the forest.
Upon my return I work methodically, checking each part of my patient for injuries. As I cut away his breeches I found that the wound on his thigh was indeed deep. More curious was a piece of imbedded metal. It had to come out. I drew my trusty ladies dagger from my corsett and began to cut away enough of the torn flesh to be able to grasp the metal. (Fortunately the loss of blood had place him in a deep sleep or I would never had been able to do this for fear of rendering more pain.) I grasped the rod and began a steady pull. It was more difficult than I had thought, but eventually I held in my hand the broken end of a weapon. It was about 10cm long and wide enough to exhibit some sort of design, the likes of which I had never seen.
The etching encircle the shaft. It spiraled as ivy portraying small mythical creatures at each turn. There were unicorns, centaurs, tree nymphs, and sprites. To whom might such a weapon belong?
As I pondered this question I went back to my work. I removed his maile and chemise to find that some viscious knife had pierce him in several places. I gently washed each laceration and bound them with the bark of the ash. I moved to wipe the blood from his hair and head. Great fortune smiled here fore it was only a flesh wound. The scalp does bleed profusly at the slightest injury.
Then I placed a cool compress torn from the hem of my undergarment upon his head and proceeded to brew a tea from the digitalis.
As the night drew near I knew I must return to my home or be found suspicious. So, I left my warrior hidden and bandaged to steal away not knowing whether he would be still among the living come the dawn.
------------------
Old dogs CAN learn new tricks!
[This message has been edited by ledgerto (edited 05-21-2001).]
[This message has been edited by ledgerto (edited 05-21-2001).]
[This message has been edited by ledgerto (edited 05-21-2001).]
[This message has been edited by ledgerto (edited 05-21-2001).]
[This message has been edited by ledgerto (edited 05-22-2001).] Too soon the angel of death sweeps o're each one and leaves a cold dew upon the lips and in the heart. Live well, laugh much, love long, and die hard.
-
Senior Member
Array 
Bravo!! I want to hear more! I also like how you're taking off from another story, making your own. That's great! Now let's see if anybody else follow suit.
------------------
Nækos, leader of elite Aiovan Strike Force
"You can run, but you'll only die tired". -Michael Anson It is the soldier, not the reporter, who has given us the freedom of the press. It is the soldier, not the poet, who has given us the freedom of speech. It is the soldier, not the campus organizer, who gives us the freedom to demonstrate. It is the soldier who salutes the flag, who serves beneath the flag, and whose coffin is draped by the flag, who allows the protestor to burn the flag. - Father Dennis Edward O'Brien, USMC
-
Oh Swordsman, how you have inspired me. It has been sometime since I picked up my quill.
Thank you.
------------------
Old dogs CAN learn new tricks! Too soon the angel of death sweeps o're each one and leaves a cold dew upon the lips and in the heart. Live well, laugh much, love long, and die hard.
-
Senior Member
Array
My pleasure! I love to read other people's writing.
------------------
Nækos, leader of elite Aiovan Strike Force
"You can run, but you'll only die tired". -Michael Anson It is the soldier, not the reporter, who has given us the freedom of the press. It is the soldier, not the poet, who has given us the freedom of speech. It is the soldier, not the campus organizer, who gives us the freedom to demonstrate. It is the soldier who salutes the flag, who serves beneath the flag, and whose coffin is draped by the flag, who allows the protestor to burn the flag. - Father Dennis Edward O'Brien, USMC
-
Senior Member
Array 
bravo!bravo!bravo!
the Arcon
-
Senior Member
Array
Sarcasm is not your strong suit, Mr. Cadet. Try a straight insult next time.
------------------
Nækos, leader of elite Aiovan Strike Force
"You can run, but you'll only die tired". -Michael Anson It is the soldier, not the reporter, who has given us the freedom of the press. It is the soldier, not the poet, who has given us the freedom of speech. It is the soldier, not the campus organizer, who gives us the freedom to demonstrate. It is the soldier who salutes the flag, who serves beneath the flag, and whose coffin is draped by the flag, who allows the protestor to burn the flag. - Father Dennis Edward O'Brien, USMC
-
Thank you, Swordsman. I see I have a champion.
Space Cadet perhaps a duel of the pen is in order. Perhaps our peers could be the judges?
------------------
Old dogs CAN learn new tricks!
[This message has been edited by ledgerto (edited 05-22-2001).] Too soon the angel of death sweeps o're each one and leaves a cold dew upon the lips and in the heart. Live well, laugh much, love long, and die hard.
-
Senior Member
Array
I'm not sure of the rules regarding the championing of a lady, but Moonitic is my sworn lady before all. If the protocol will allow, though, I will champion ledgerto as well.
------------------
Nækos, leader of elite Strike Force Aiovus
"You can run, but you'll only die tired". -Michael Anson It is the soldier, not the reporter, who has given us the freedom of the press. It is the soldier, not the poet, who has given us the freedom of speech. It is the soldier, not the campus organizer, who gives us the freedom to demonstrate. It is the soldier who salutes the flag, who serves beneath the flag, and whose coffin is draped by the flag, who allows the protestor to burn the flag. - Father Dennis Edward O'Brien, USMC
-
Thank you again, Shadow.
Space Cadet, here is my proposal. We start a new thread. The King may choose the topic (If he agrees). We both write on the same topic. We both post on the same day and time; to be determined.
Then those who care to may register their votes.
We can add any other details we see fit before the duel begins, including but not limited to spelling, punctuation, grammar, etc.
------------------
Old dogs CAN learn new tricks! Too soon the angel of death sweeps o're each one and leaves a cold dew upon the lips and in the heart. Live well, laugh much, love long, and die hard.
-
Senior Member
Array
Okay, spacey, it's on now. Check my new thread.
------------------
Sir Nækos Servaya, leader of elite Strike Force Aiovus
"You can run, but you'll only die tired". -Michael Anson It is the soldier, not the reporter, who has given us the freedom of the press. It is the soldier, not the poet, who has given us the freedom of speech. It is the soldier, not the campus organizer, who gives us the freedom to demonstrate. It is the soldier who salutes the flag, who serves beneath the flag, and whose coffin is draped by the flag, who allows the protestor to burn the flag. - Father Dennis Edward O'Brien, USMC
-
Senior Member
Array
I find it interesting that you didn't bother to parry my riposte; you gave me the point and decided to go with a new, shallow and pathetic attack. Here's my...well, I guess it would be something of an opposition parry.
As soon as Nækos’ sword came out, space_cadet was up and running. He blew past an outside, leaving the girl, still looking a little shaken. “You needn’t worry about me, m’lady. I’m just trying to get out of the storm.” She seemed to relax a little, but kept a suspicious eye on Nækos until he stretched out on in the loft and dozed.
When the rain lessened, then quit, he got up, seeing that the maiden had left already. Refreshed and semi-dry, he left the barn, and continued toward his cottage. Soon, however, he saw it, with smoke rising from the chimney, and a horse tied out front. Approaching warily, sword and dagger out, he saw nobody around the outside. Hearing a shout and giggling, he entered, nearly tripping over Moonitic, and startling them both senseless. When the adrenaline subsided, he removed his blade from her throat. She pointed toward the main room (he had entered through the back, where her horse was tied). There was the Arcon impersonator, still in character, reeking of liquor, and SITTING IN HIS CHAIR!! He was about to go in and remove him when Moonitic held him back, and pointed again. Here was space_cadet, drunk enough to mistake the impersonator for the real king, and wearing...Naekos’ blood turned to ice. space_cadet was wearing one of his tunics, his other gladius, and his cloak. They seemed to be...getting along...quite well...Nækos thought he would be sick. The impersonator was obviously as drunk, if not more drunk then, space_cadet, as he obviously thought that it was the real Swordsman. This would not do.
Nækos stormed in, kicked the drink – in his own mug! – out of space’s hand, grabbed the impersonator by the front of his robes and heaved him out the door. space_cadet started giggling hysterically in a high-pitched voice. Then he recognized Nækos, and became serious for a moment. A moment. Then he began giggling again, and stumbled out of the room, overturning some furniture on his way.
Following, Nækos saw that Moonitic had dragged the impersonator the rest of the way outside. space_cadet followed his passed-out “friend”, then helped him up and slapped him awake. They both started giggling again, then collapsed in each other’s arms.
Ignoring them, Nækos turned to Moonitic and invited her in. “Sorry about the mess...I should really get a lock, or a dog or something. Not sure what those two were up to...”
“It’s quite alright...I don’t think I’ll stay, no offense...”
“None taken.”
“...but I heard some...umm...interesting things being said...rather unpleasant, I might add...”
“I’ll thank you to spare me the details, and get to cleaning up.”
“Good luck. I’ll mention this to the real Arcon, and see you later?”
“Sounds good to me.” And a long job lay ahead of him.
Your move
------------------
Sir Nækos Servaya, leader of elite Strike Force Aiovus
"You can run, but you'll only die tired". -Michael Anson It is the soldier, not the reporter, who has given us the freedom of the press. It is the soldier, not the poet, who has given us the freedom of speech. It is the soldier, not the campus organizer, who gives us the freedom to demonstrate. It is the soldier who salutes the flag, who serves beneath the flag, and whose coffin is draped by the flag, who allows the protestor to burn the flag. - Father Dennis Edward O'Brien, USMC
-
I stole along the path in the quickly fading light. On my mind was the wounded warrior. I should have been think about why I had been out in the first place. My Lady had sent me on a mission to obtain some small pink flowers that grew along the edge of the forest. I had completely forgotten them. I would pay for this dearly for the Lady was a miserable, cruel thing. What could I tell her? Perhaps if I begged her forgiveness she would not be too harsh. Life was so much better before I came to live on the estate, before my father sent me here because he had too many mouth's to feed.
I opened the gate as quietly as possible and slipped in through the kitchen room. Cook was asleep in the corner already and the apige was frantically scrubbing a huge black pot. He looked up and pressed his finger to his lips.
Too soon the angel of death sweeps o're each one and leaves a cold dew upon the lips and in the heart. Live well, laugh much, love long, and die hard.
-
Senior Member
Array
Originally posted by Potter_Harry: Swordsman,
Your starting to get a little scary. You do understand that you are not REALLY Sir Nækos Servaya, leader of elite Strike Force Aiovus, right?
A Concerned Harry As far as you're concerned, I am. I don't want you to know who I really am, so why should I put up anything else? And don't forget that you're going by "Harry Potter", who, by the way, is copywrighted by another, far superior, author. At least I use original material.
------------------
Sir Nækos Servaya, leader of elite Strike Force Aiovus
"You can run, but you'll only die tired". -Michael Anson It is the soldier, not the reporter, who has given us the freedom of the press. It is the soldier, not the poet, who has given us the freedom of speech. It is the soldier, not the campus organizer, who gives us the freedom to demonstrate. It is the soldier who salutes the flag, who serves beneath the flag, and whose coffin is draped by the flag, who allows the protestor to burn the flag. - Father Dennis Edward O'Brien, USMC
-
Senior Member
Array
Keep it up, ledgerto. I'm very interested. It is the soldier, not the reporter, who has given us the freedom of the press. It is the soldier, not the poet, who has given us the freedom of speech. It is the soldier, not the campus organizer, who gives us the freedom to demonstrate. It is the soldier who salutes the flag, who serves beneath the flag, and whose coffin is draped by the flag, who allows the protestor to burn the flag. - Father Dennis Edward O'Brien, USMC
-
I slipped quietly along the stone corridor trying to avoid the inevitable. As I rounded the corner I came up short, right into the one I wished to avoid.
"M'lady," I said with a quick courtsey.
"WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?" she bellowed as she raised her hand to strike. I dodge the blow as it landed with a smack on the hard wall.
She was in a constent state of anger but this infuriated her further.
"M'lady, please, don't!" I cried.
"Do you think I feed you and clothe you and shelter you so you can be a sluggard? NO, I do it because your family didn't want you anymore. They threw you away. I'll show you!"
She grabbed me by the wrist and started to drag me from the hall. I stumbled and she continued to drag me back through the kitchen and out of the door. I tried to stand as she shoved me into a small outbuilding and bolted the door behind me.
I sank into the now cold night and tears fell from my eyes.
I did not cry for myself, but for the strange warrior I had left in the cave. What would become of him if I could not escape my prison?
Then I remember the shaft of the sword I had removed from him. I had placed it in the folds of my skirt. Perhaps I could use this tool to free myself.
Quickly I dug it from its hiding place and set to work at the door. With it I was able to chip away at the hinges that held me captive. As time went by my fingers became numb, but I percevered. Victory would be mine.
It seemed that hours had passed. When I was finally able to push myself free all was quiet and still. The night was filled with stars which hung low in the sky. That told me it was near morning and I must hurry.
I stole into the larder and fetched a small cloth sack which I filled with a portion of food, enough for a day or two, to sustain the warrior and me. Next I slipped into the great room and removed a long sword from its hanger. Then I krept out into the night and headed toward the ivy wall that hid the cave and the wounded warrior.
------------------
Old dogs CAN learn new tricks! Too soon the angel of death sweeps o're each one and leaves a cold dew upon the lips and in the heart. Live well, laugh much, love long, and die hard.
-
Sister, what are you up to? Why are you telling this stupid story again? You've told it a million times by now.
------------------
You CAN teach old dogs new tricks.
-
Yes, dear. I am telling it AGAIN. Now, do let me go on. Too soon the angel of death sweeps o're each one and leaves a cold dew upon the lips and in the heart. Live well, laugh much, love long, and die hard.
-
As I entered the cave, I heard him stir. The twilight air was crisp and cold, it chilled me through. I could scarce make out the form of the sleeping man. He was curled into a tight ball to warm himself. I pulled my cloak tighter about me and took a seat nearby to watch him.
He was so comely that he took my breath away. He had the look of someone who spent a great deal of time out of doors hunting and honing his skills as a fighter. His hands where large, his arms and legs tight of muscle. What, I wondered had brought him to this? He appeared too strong to be easily defeated.
I was startled from my thoughts when he sat up, looked to me and said, "Fair morn to you, miss. Have you stayed the night with me?" I felt a chill at the way he gazed at me.
"Nay, sir. I have just returned. There is a bit of bread for you here. Are you well enough to eat?"
"Aye, I am feeling quite fit after a good night's rest, though my leg be a bit stiff. Come and see to it," he coaxed.
I approached cautiously, for his continence had changed. When I reached out my hand to touch his woumd, he grab my wrist and pulled me close to him.
"How old be ye, girl?" he asked with a curled smile on his lips and a gleam in his eye.
I tried to speak, but could not. I was truly fearful. I could feel my eyes widen and his hot breath on my cheek.
"Ah, it matters not. You are old enough to take care of my needs, are you not?"
I could not escape his grasp no matter how hard I struggled. My thoughts of his strength had been correct. I was no match for him. As he forced his attentions on me I cried out. When he was finished I lay stunned. I had offered him shelter, cleansed his wounds and given him food. He repaid me by taking my innocence. When once I had my wits about me again, I rose and tried to flee, but he would not have it.
"You will go nowhere except with me. I have enjoyed your company and wish to enjoy it all the more. Get your things together, we will leave momentarily for my home country. There you will be mine."
"NO! You cannot take me away! How can you treat me so? I have shown you naught but kindness."
"Did I not tell you in the beginning that your life would be in danger if you aided me?"
"You did, but I supposed it would be danger from your enemy not from you."
"Then you are truly a foolish girl. Or should I say woman now?"
My mind raced. I could not go back to the mistress' house. I would not let this evil despot steal me away. Then I saw lying near his bed, his war hammer. If only I could reach it, I could debrain him and flee.
"Sir, you are right," I said coyly. "I was foolish. I will not fight you. You are far stronger than I. I will go with you, if only you tell me your name."
"Now you sound like you have some sense. Pity you are a mere woman. My name is Sir George, Sir George of Washington. I come from a far off country where only the most ruthless survive."
"I see. May I gather the belongings now?" I asked. Drawing closer to the hammer I pretended to roll the bedding. Then I reached for the hammer, swung fast and sure, hitting him square in the head and knocking him off his feet. I was not sure by what god I was given the power, but Sir George never stirred again. I had killed him.
Quickly, I left the shelter of my homeland and fled taking the hammer, my trophy, with me. I could not go back to my mistress for surely she would punish me again. I knew that I would have no value to any man with my innocence robbed of me, so I ran. Little did I know that I did not run alone for in my belly a seed had been planted by the scoundrel, George.
Eventually I came to a new city where a kindly princess, Zelda, took me in. She was kind and made me a handmaid for a time. But, soon she came to realize that I possessed more skill than that of the average handmaid and she sent me to train in the arts of weaponry where I excelled.
And what of the seed? When I first realized that I was with child, I wanted nothing more than to be rid of it. Knowing where it came from sicken me. I knew it could only be evil. But on the day of her arrival, I took one look into her beautiful face and knew that she was good despite her tragic beginning. So, with Zelda's help, my shame was hidden and a noble family was found to raise her. They were so kind to both of us, allowing me to visit whenever I wished. Telling her that I was her older sister, she never knew the truth until now.
I think you have guessed by now that I speak of the Dame Josephine d' Escrime. Too soon the angel of death sweeps o're each one and leaves a cold dew upon the lips and in the heart. Live well, laugh much, love long, and die hard.
-
Senior Member
Array 
Theses are evil....VERY evil, someone rescue me pls!
-
Senior Member
Array 
ALL GEORGE WASHINGTON NOW BELONGS TO ME!  CAUTION: The heart is a fragile thing. Handle with care.
Posting Permissions
- You may not post new threads
- You may not post replies
- You may not post attachments
- You may not edit your posts
-
Forum Rules |
