Post by Sir Nichtmar on Aug 27, 2009 6:33:50 GMT -5
FORWARD: I just thought Dragoons would make a great comic book series and since I'm not great at drawing, I figured I write some short stories. It may not be accurate in some cases, but I hope you enjoy reading it. Thannix, you should totally illustrate it some time.
-Nichtmar
These are the tales of the Legion of the Dragoons. They were first known as the black legion and they rebelled against the powerful and evil Kingdom of Llorac. Llorrac is nestled in the far north mountains of the Northern Steppes, the Northeastern tip of the Land Between the Lands. In a great battle the black legion were all wiped out except for two warriors. Bishop and Militis nearly fought to their last breath, but the Great One came and with a mighty swing from his sword he struck the ground and a shock wave left the enemy unconscious. He marked them and their equipment with an image, an image of his mighty sword and he said...
"You are now those who fight and slay the dragon and the enemies from the north."
"You are Dragoons."
"I will lead others to you. Teach them, train them, and they will become your brothers..."
"...ash to ash, dust to dust..."
A year later…
Bishop in black scale armor stands over a map in a dark tent, candles flicker, and other Dragoons circle the table.
“We can’t trust this Greymail. I’ve heard he’s a Demon!” Militis, Dragoon Warlord, exclaims.
“Yeah, but this campaign against Llorac will not pay for itself. We’ve got to do mercenary work. We both knew some jobs were gonna get our hands dirty.”
Zaron, a half-elf, jumped in, “Hey, I have no problem killing some elves. And if we get paid for it, even better.”
“Pardon me?” shoots Taos, a once high ranking officer in the Elvin Army of his former realm.
“Calm down, I’m just saying these aren’t good elves.”
Bishop points at the map. “Shouldn’t be too hard. They have a small palace past the borders. Here and here look like our best entry points…”
Meanwhile in Saredel, the target waits…
“My Elvin Lord, are you sure it is not too bold to send assassins? If we fail and it is linked to us then Greymail will surely respo...”
The elf’s words are silenced to gargles. Lord Rist looks to one of his soldiers. “Loyalty…” The Dark eyed and pale skinned elf paces. “Loyalty is how Kingdoms are built. Soon enough the vial Greymail will be dead.”
Back in a village not far from the Dragoon Camp…
The Dragoons sit huddled in a small shack and an old woman reads the runes over a map.
“What we do here?” asked a young faced ogre.
Taos grins at the ogre’s ignorance. “My friend Nichtmar, this world we live in is the Land Between the Land and all of us were brought here through the mist against our own will. This started happening a long time ago in the First Age. We are here now in the Third. We make do, but you see some are gifted enough to ‘read’ the mists so fools like us can travel to other realms. We call them Mist Readers. She will tell us where and when to be and hopefully we’ll get lucky.”
“We get stuck in other realm?”
“No, soon enough the Land Between pulls you back whether you like it or not.”
“How?”
“No one knows.”
Hours Later the Dragoons, armed and armored are walking toward the White Cliffs…
“Where is it?” asks Zaron.
Bishop walks to the ledge looking down.
“No…?” says Militis.
Bishop nods, “yep.”
The ocean below crashes into the face of the mountain and the rocky coast. Above that sits a mist.
Zaron looks over and then around searching for other mists, “I don’t see any others.”
Taos looks too and agrees, “Me neither.”
Nichtmar looks over and groans and loses his balance a little as he steps from the edge.
Zaron grins, “Uh uh” and shoves Nichtmar over. Zaron yells over the edge “If it’s just fog let us know!”
Nichtmar yells as he falls. He then hits the mist and is gone, then he’s over a barn, he breaks through the roof and then hits a pile of hay. Chickens squawk and flutter for their lives. Moments later the others come down crashing except for Taos, he lands like cat on the roof.
“Elves…” Zaron mocks.
“Aren’t you half elf?” asks Nichtmar.
“Shutup, ogre”
“Alright, we need to figure out where we are,” says Militis.
Suddenly a farmer kicks in the door holding a pitch fork. “What you all doin…”
In a blink Bishop whips his sword from his back, Militis reaches and snatches a javelin from his quiver, Zaron grabs a small crossbow that hung from his belt, Taos had dropped off the roof of the barn behind the man with a dagger tapping his shoulder and Nichtmar was fumbling with the snap on his scabbard.”
The farmer gulped. “…here?”
They all looked at Nichtmar.
“Stuck…” he shrugged. “Sorry.” He finally got it out.
Taos explains to the man with his dagger still resting near his throat, “We mean you no harm, farmer. We’re here to slay some vile elves. Perhaps you know of them?”
The man points to the east.
Later Outside Saredel Palace…
Zaron, Bishop and Nichtmar, with blades undrawn on their backs, walk straight toward the two guards at a side gates. They start walking out to halt them.
“Hey, there’s no entering the palace after hours,” one of the guards demands.
Then there’s the twang of two bows from a distance on either side. Both of the guards drop. Then Taos and Militis come out of the shadows.
“This is too easy, I don’t like it,” says Militis.
The men start lightly hurrying through the side courtyard.
“Where’s the guards?” asks Bishop.
Then there’s a growl from a shadow. Two red glowing eyes open. They start coming out of the shadow. Then it’s furry white snout and pointed ears.
“Dire wolf,” says Zaron.
Then the sound of padded steps along upper ledges of the wall and the palace circle them.
“Ah, dire wolvesss,” Taos says, emphasizing the plural.
One leaps down at Bishop and sinks its teeth into his leather armor. He fights it off and tosses it to the ground. The wolf growls about to attack again, but its head is removed by Zaron’s greatsword. Nichtmar is wrestling with one on the ground as Militis being chased by one he heads for a wall and runs up flipping over and behind the wolf and cuts it down. Bishop skewers the next wolf that tries to jump at him and in a fluid move grabs a javelin out of Militis’s quiver and hurls it into Nichtmar’s wolf. It yelps in pain, Nichtmar finishes it off with his blade.
“Thanks, that all of them?” asks Nichtmar.
Several guards come around the corner.
Bishop yells, “This way!”
He runs and hurdles and shatters through a window. The others follow. Nichtmar, the last to go through, knocks over the candelabra, lighting the curtains on fire. The guards cut off for now. They run up the stairs heading for the masters room, running into little resistance on their way. They make short work of most of the interior guards
Then they open the doors to the Lord Rist’s room. He stands holding two swords, his arms crossed, and his breathing calm.
“You are unwelcome here.”
“Shut it, we’re here to dust your ass, so save the speech for hell,” Bishop says firmly.
Bishop comes swinging, the others sweeping the flanks. Rist spins out of the way. Militis moves in but catches the elf’s boot in the chest. He rolls behind Militis snatching his last javelin and hurls it into the shoulder of Zaron. Zaron just stops and looks at it and yanks it out.
“You son of a bi…” Rist jump kicks him in the face, stopping the rest of sentence. Nichtmar moves in, his swing easily parried and with blinding speed Rist slashes at the chest of Nichtmar. Zaron pommels Rist in the back of the head. He stutters toward a slice from Taos.
Rist stops, blood drips from his head, he checks. “My ear!”
“You bring shame to Elven kind,” says Taos.
Rist flurries toward Taos. A barrage of steel pours in Taos’s direction. He’s back stepping and having trouble blocking, letting a few strikes get past. Bishop, Militis and Zaron dive into the fight circling him. Rist’s blades start moving defensively. Then Bishop cleaves an arm. Maybe less than a minute or two had gone by and the fight is over. Rist knelt helplessly trying to hold back the blood from the stump.
Bishop lifts the elf’s chin with the tip of his blade “Greymail sends his regards” and thrusts his sword through Rist’s chest.
They leave the burning palace and collect their pay from Greymail. They spend the night in an inn to eat and mend their wounds. While they sleep, one by one the mist takes them home.
-Nichtmar
These are the tales of the Legion of the Dragoons. They were first known as the black legion and they rebelled against the powerful and evil Kingdom of Llorac. Llorrac is nestled in the far north mountains of the Northern Steppes, the Northeastern tip of the Land Between the Lands. In a great battle the black legion were all wiped out except for two warriors. Bishop and Militis nearly fought to their last breath, but the Great One came and with a mighty swing from his sword he struck the ground and a shock wave left the enemy unconscious. He marked them and their equipment with an image, an image of his mighty sword and he said...
"You are now those who fight and slay the dragon and the enemies from the north."
"You are Dragoons."
"I will lead others to you. Teach them, train them, and they will become your brothers..."
"...ash to ash, dust to dust..."
A year later…
Bishop in black scale armor stands over a map in a dark tent, candles flicker, and other Dragoons circle the table.
“We can’t trust this Greymail. I’ve heard he’s a Demon!” Militis, Dragoon Warlord, exclaims.
“Yeah, but this campaign against Llorac will not pay for itself. We’ve got to do mercenary work. We both knew some jobs were gonna get our hands dirty.”
Zaron, a half-elf, jumped in, “Hey, I have no problem killing some elves. And if we get paid for it, even better.”
“Pardon me?” shoots Taos, a once high ranking officer in the Elvin Army of his former realm.
“Calm down, I’m just saying these aren’t good elves.”
Bishop points at the map. “Shouldn’t be too hard. They have a small palace past the borders. Here and here look like our best entry points…”
Meanwhile in Saredel, the target waits…
“My Elvin Lord, are you sure it is not too bold to send assassins? If we fail and it is linked to us then Greymail will surely respo...”
The elf’s words are silenced to gargles. Lord Rist looks to one of his soldiers. “Loyalty…” The Dark eyed and pale skinned elf paces. “Loyalty is how Kingdoms are built. Soon enough the vial Greymail will be dead.”
Back in a village not far from the Dragoon Camp…
The Dragoons sit huddled in a small shack and an old woman reads the runes over a map.
“What we do here?” asked a young faced ogre.
Taos grins at the ogre’s ignorance. “My friend Nichtmar, this world we live in is the Land Between the Land and all of us were brought here through the mist against our own will. This started happening a long time ago in the First Age. We are here now in the Third. We make do, but you see some are gifted enough to ‘read’ the mists so fools like us can travel to other realms. We call them Mist Readers. She will tell us where and when to be and hopefully we’ll get lucky.”
“We get stuck in other realm?”
“No, soon enough the Land Between pulls you back whether you like it or not.”
“How?”
“No one knows.”
Hours Later the Dragoons, armed and armored are walking toward the White Cliffs…
“Where is it?” asks Zaron.
Bishop walks to the ledge looking down.
“No…?” says Militis.
Bishop nods, “yep.”
The ocean below crashes into the face of the mountain and the rocky coast. Above that sits a mist.
Zaron looks over and then around searching for other mists, “I don’t see any others.”
Taos looks too and agrees, “Me neither.”
Nichtmar looks over and groans and loses his balance a little as he steps from the edge.
Zaron grins, “Uh uh” and shoves Nichtmar over. Zaron yells over the edge “If it’s just fog let us know!”
Nichtmar yells as he falls. He then hits the mist and is gone, then he’s over a barn, he breaks through the roof and then hits a pile of hay. Chickens squawk and flutter for their lives. Moments later the others come down crashing except for Taos, he lands like cat on the roof.
“Elves…” Zaron mocks.
“Aren’t you half elf?” asks Nichtmar.
“Shutup, ogre”
“Alright, we need to figure out where we are,” says Militis.
Suddenly a farmer kicks in the door holding a pitch fork. “What you all doin…”
In a blink Bishop whips his sword from his back, Militis reaches and snatches a javelin from his quiver, Zaron grabs a small crossbow that hung from his belt, Taos had dropped off the roof of the barn behind the man with a dagger tapping his shoulder and Nichtmar was fumbling with the snap on his scabbard.”
The farmer gulped. “…here?”
They all looked at Nichtmar.
“Stuck…” he shrugged. “Sorry.” He finally got it out.
Taos explains to the man with his dagger still resting near his throat, “We mean you no harm, farmer. We’re here to slay some vile elves. Perhaps you know of them?”
The man points to the east.
Later Outside Saredel Palace…
Zaron, Bishop and Nichtmar, with blades undrawn on their backs, walk straight toward the two guards at a side gates. They start walking out to halt them.
“Hey, there’s no entering the palace after hours,” one of the guards demands.
Then there’s the twang of two bows from a distance on either side. Both of the guards drop. Then Taos and Militis come out of the shadows.
“This is too easy, I don’t like it,” says Militis.
The men start lightly hurrying through the side courtyard.
“Where’s the guards?” asks Bishop.
Then there’s a growl from a shadow. Two red glowing eyes open. They start coming out of the shadow. Then it’s furry white snout and pointed ears.
“Dire wolf,” says Zaron.
Then the sound of padded steps along upper ledges of the wall and the palace circle them.
“Ah, dire wolvesss,” Taos says, emphasizing the plural.
One leaps down at Bishop and sinks its teeth into his leather armor. He fights it off and tosses it to the ground. The wolf growls about to attack again, but its head is removed by Zaron’s greatsword. Nichtmar is wrestling with one on the ground as Militis being chased by one he heads for a wall and runs up flipping over and behind the wolf and cuts it down. Bishop skewers the next wolf that tries to jump at him and in a fluid move grabs a javelin out of Militis’s quiver and hurls it into Nichtmar’s wolf. It yelps in pain, Nichtmar finishes it off with his blade.
“Thanks, that all of them?” asks Nichtmar.
Several guards come around the corner.
Bishop yells, “This way!”
He runs and hurdles and shatters through a window. The others follow. Nichtmar, the last to go through, knocks over the candelabra, lighting the curtains on fire. The guards cut off for now. They run up the stairs heading for the masters room, running into little resistance on their way. They make short work of most of the interior guards
Then they open the doors to the Lord Rist’s room. He stands holding two swords, his arms crossed, and his breathing calm.
“You are unwelcome here.”
“Shut it, we’re here to dust your ass, so save the speech for hell,” Bishop says firmly.
Bishop comes swinging, the others sweeping the flanks. Rist spins out of the way. Militis moves in but catches the elf’s boot in the chest. He rolls behind Militis snatching his last javelin and hurls it into the shoulder of Zaron. Zaron just stops and looks at it and yanks it out.
“You son of a bi…” Rist jump kicks him in the face, stopping the rest of sentence. Nichtmar moves in, his swing easily parried and with blinding speed Rist slashes at the chest of Nichtmar. Zaron pommels Rist in the back of the head. He stutters toward a slice from Taos.
Rist stops, blood drips from his head, he checks. “My ear!”
“You bring shame to Elven kind,” says Taos.
Rist flurries toward Taos. A barrage of steel pours in Taos’s direction. He’s back stepping and having trouble blocking, letting a few strikes get past. Bishop, Militis and Zaron dive into the fight circling him. Rist’s blades start moving defensively. Then Bishop cleaves an arm. Maybe less than a minute or two had gone by and the fight is over. Rist knelt helplessly trying to hold back the blood from the stump.
Bishop lifts the elf’s chin with the tip of his blade “Greymail sends his regards” and thrusts his sword through Rist’s chest.
They leave the burning palace and collect their pay from Greymail. They spend the night in an inn to eat and mend their wounds. While they sleep, one by one the mist takes them home.
