Post by Alric, son of Harland on Feb 22, 2007 18:21:54 GMT -5
At the beginning of the Fifth Century, Honorius, the emperor in the West, enlisted the aid of the Visigoths in an effort to wrest control of the Iberian peninsula from the Vandals and other barbarian groups. The Visigoths were rewarded with land in Aquitaine and quickly became the dominant power in Iberia. Within a quarter-century, they had driven the Vandals into north Africa. One of the successful bands of Visigoths never returned home.
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Alric, son of Harland, was leading his young band of Visigothic warriors through the forests at dusk when they encountered a strange purple mist that seemed to hang heavily in the air. Alric was a headstrong leader, unwilling to show hesitance or fear in the presence of his men, and he marched straight into the mists. Leovigild, son of Eurander, and Roderic, son of Witteric, kept their places by his side. Some of the men were reluctant to follow, but as they watched their leader and his two shadows push forward with no adverse effect, they gathered their courage and drove on.
After marching through the mist for a few minutes, the men began to feel sluggish, but Alric continued to march. It felt as though chains weighed his feet to the ground, but still he fought to lift his feet. He heard a thud, and when he turned, he saw Liuva, the smallest of the band, laying on the ground. Now fearful of the mist, Alric attempted to order the retreat. His mouth opened, but his tongue would not move, and panic flashed through his mind as more of his men began to collapse. Leovigild was the last of the men to fall, and as Alric watched his ever-present shadow slump to the ground, his vision began to darken, and he felt himself slip into oblivion.
When Alric awoke, his head was pounding and his vision blurry. As he stood, he lost his balance and tripped over his cousin Roderic. Roderic woke, and his groan indicated that he, too, was experiencing the headache. Alric began nudging his men awake, and as they shook off their grogginess, he realized that they were no longer in the forest where they had fallen. They were in a field of tall grass and bright yellow flowers. A boulder lay a few paces away.
“What magik would put us to sleep and move us from the forest to this field?” one of his men asked.
“I don’t know that it was magik.” Alric replied. “Perhaps we were simply dragged to this field.”
“But what made us sleep?”
“Who would drag us?”
“And why?”
“You weren’t dragged here,” came a call from atop the boulder. Alric drew his sword as he spun to face the voice. A chuckle came from the boulder as a man stepped forward and seated himself at the edge of the boulder, his feet dangling. The boots on his feet were soft black leather, and the pants tucked into them were a deep blue. The ruffled shirt was white and much too heavy for the weather. “The mist brought you.”
“Who are you?” Alric demanded. “And what do you know of the mist?”
The man placed his hands on the edge of the rock and pushed himself off, landing gracefully. He shook the long, curly black hair from his face and bowed, placing his left hand on the basket hilt of a rapier to tilt it as he bowed.
“I am the Duke Daemont D’Marques.” He rose with a frown. “Or at least I was.” He shook his head as though banishing an unpleasant thought and smiled. “I was caught in a mist and brought here. I can only assume the mist brought you as well?”
“It did. I am Alric, son of Harland, and these are my men.” He offered his arm to clasp, but the Duke instead grabbed his hand and pulled up, then down.
“Pleased to meet you, Alric,” the Duke said with a smile. “What say we learn what we can about this new land?”
Alric
*************
Alric, son of Harland, was leading his young band of Visigothic warriors through the forests at dusk when they encountered a strange purple mist that seemed to hang heavily in the air. Alric was a headstrong leader, unwilling to show hesitance or fear in the presence of his men, and he marched straight into the mists. Leovigild, son of Eurander, and Roderic, son of Witteric, kept their places by his side. Some of the men were reluctant to follow, but as they watched their leader and his two shadows push forward with no adverse effect, they gathered their courage and drove on.
After marching through the mist for a few minutes, the men began to feel sluggish, but Alric continued to march. It felt as though chains weighed his feet to the ground, but still he fought to lift his feet. He heard a thud, and when he turned, he saw Liuva, the smallest of the band, laying on the ground. Now fearful of the mist, Alric attempted to order the retreat. His mouth opened, but his tongue would not move, and panic flashed through his mind as more of his men began to collapse. Leovigild was the last of the men to fall, and as Alric watched his ever-present shadow slump to the ground, his vision began to darken, and he felt himself slip into oblivion.
When Alric awoke, his head was pounding and his vision blurry. As he stood, he lost his balance and tripped over his cousin Roderic. Roderic woke, and his groan indicated that he, too, was experiencing the headache. Alric began nudging his men awake, and as they shook off their grogginess, he realized that they were no longer in the forest where they had fallen. They were in a field of tall grass and bright yellow flowers. A boulder lay a few paces away.
“What magik would put us to sleep and move us from the forest to this field?” one of his men asked.
“I don’t know that it was magik.” Alric replied. “Perhaps we were simply dragged to this field.”
“But what made us sleep?”
“Who would drag us?”
“And why?”
“You weren’t dragged here,” came a call from atop the boulder. Alric drew his sword as he spun to face the voice. A chuckle came from the boulder as a man stepped forward and seated himself at the edge of the boulder, his feet dangling. The boots on his feet were soft black leather, and the pants tucked into them were a deep blue. The ruffled shirt was white and much too heavy for the weather. “The mist brought you.”
“Who are you?” Alric demanded. “And what do you know of the mist?”
The man placed his hands on the edge of the rock and pushed himself off, landing gracefully. He shook the long, curly black hair from his face and bowed, placing his left hand on the basket hilt of a rapier to tilt it as he bowed.
“I am the Duke Daemont D’Marques.” He rose with a frown. “Or at least I was.” He shook his head as though banishing an unpleasant thought and smiled. “I was caught in a mist and brought here. I can only assume the mist brought you as well?”
“It did. I am Alric, son of Harland, and these are my men.” He offered his arm to clasp, but the Duke instead grabbed his hand and pulled up, then down.
“Pleased to meet you, Alric,” the Duke said with a smile. “What say we learn what we can about this new land?”
Alric