The Rise of the Amber Wolf
Posted: Sun Jun 23, 2013 8:33 pm
Hey all, long time lurker (in this part of the forum at least) here. Due to reading Headshot's tales, and my avid roleplayer/writer girlfriend urgings, I've decided to have a pop at writing up my Prince's history/background.
So here is the prologue introducing both Karalael's father and his nemesis, the General of my soon to be started Warriors of Chaos force, hope you all enjoy, comments and constructive criticism welcomed.
Karalael
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Prologue. The Death of the Grey Wolf.
Analael, sat atop his mighty charger, surveyed the serried ranks of his ithilmar clad forces, midnight blue pennants and banners billowing in the wind. Beside him stood his Household Guard, horses stamping impatiently, their wolfskin cloaks and Caledor-forged armour denoting their elite status.
Across from him, on the other side of the field, were the reason his army was here; the Norse horde that was threatening the border of Saphery and Avelorn, a vast seemingly numberless mass of muscle and steel with no clear discipline aside from the large regiment of Chaos Warriors, the plate-clad behemoths dwarfing the norsemen beside them.
Taking one final look at the elves under his command, he lifted his hand, fist closed bar two fingers pointed at the sky, and then lowered it towards the enemy. It was prearranged signal for the archers and Eagle Claws to loose shaft after shaft, bolt after bolt into the army before them. Nodding down at his trusted lieutenant and standard bearer, Ashil, he ordered his regiments of Spearelves and Sword Masters forward to engage the foe.
As the blue-fletched arrows and bolts crashed down on the enemy, and his elves got closer and closer to the foe, the elf Prince silently prayed to Asuryan that the foe would engage before the window of time for a successful flank charge by him and his cavalry passed. And, just as his forces reached the centre of the battlefield, the forces of Chaos charged, tribes racing each other, warriors beating each other in order to be the first to draw blood, their mutated hounds in the lead.
Analael silently cheered, before gently touching his heels to his mount’s flanks, such was the bond between the two that that was all it took to start the warhorse to smoothly start towards the foe, his knights following swiftly behind them. As they neared the enemy, the prince and his guard easily couched their lances, and prepared for the bone-crushing impact soon to follow. The norsemen closest to the knights began to realize their earlier folly, and tried desperately to turn to face these new attackers, but it was too late, the Knights of Tor Lupa crashed into their number, lances slaughtering dozens of the tribesmen, before impacts and weight forced them to break or be dropped.
Seeing the thunderous charge of their lord, the Spearelf shieldwall that had provided the anvil that prepared the invaders to be outflanked, changed tactics. Spears scythed through the unarmoured forms in front of them, each strike a killing blow. The Sword Masters, warriors without peer, also went on the offensive. With greatswords shining through the air, limbs, heads and bodies fell with deceptively peaceful grace. The marauders being attacked were dead before they even had chance to register the killing motion.
As the Asur forces started to push the enemy, Aralael, too focused on the immediate foe, failed to notice that the Warriors, the shock troops of the horde, and its general, Malokai, had not yet entered the fray. He did not realize this until his Household Guard themselves came under attack, effortlessly hacked down or pulled from their steeds by unnatural might before Aralael himself was confronted by the unholy, daemonic visage of Malokai the Grim.
Unnerved by the sudden appearance of his enemy the Elf commander hesitated, giving the Chaos Lord time to reach his horse and snap the beast's neck with a simple flick of his wrist, sending Analael tumbling painfully to the ground. Disorientated, the Elf staggered to his feet before drawing his ancestral blade and settling into a fighting stance. Malokai smiled arrogantly, before making a gesture and gripping the scythe that materialized out of the air.
Using his natural elven grace and speed, Analael struck swiftly and deadly, his enchanted blade easily allowing him to pierce his foes defences, knocking him back and cutting into his evil, rune-encrusted armour. However, his enemy's foul gods and their enchantments protected their servant.
In return the dread warrior swung his scythe in a bedazzling array of circles, the pattern of attacks being almost impossible to defend against. Blows rained down upon the elf only to be turned aside by the magical scale he was girded in. Unfortunately even the best armour is not infallible and Analael took a grievous blow, the scythe ripping through the muscle of the elf’s side. Sensing that the battle would be lost if he didn’t do something soon, the noble Sapherian stood and, taking hold of his sword in two hands, batted his foe’s scythe aside and stabbed deep into his chest, the effort making his wound tear wider.
Collapsing on the ground, the last thing he saw was Malokai’s body consuming itself with a multi-hued flame, leaving no trace behind. His vision faded to nothing and the Prince smiled, knowing he had defended Ulthuan’s soil once more, content to die knowing he had succeeded.
So here is the prologue introducing both Karalael's father and his nemesis, the General of my soon to be started Warriors of Chaos force, hope you all enjoy, comments and constructive criticism welcomed.
Karalael
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Prologue. The Death of the Grey Wolf.
Analael, sat atop his mighty charger, surveyed the serried ranks of his ithilmar clad forces, midnight blue pennants and banners billowing in the wind. Beside him stood his Household Guard, horses stamping impatiently, their wolfskin cloaks and Caledor-forged armour denoting their elite status.
Across from him, on the other side of the field, were the reason his army was here; the Norse horde that was threatening the border of Saphery and Avelorn, a vast seemingly numberless mass of muscle and steel with no clear discipline aside from the large regiment of Chaos Warriors, the plate-clad behemoths dwarfing the norsemen beside them.
Taking one final look at the elves under his command, he lifted his hand, fist closed bar two fingers pointed at the sky, and then lowered it towards the enemy. It was prearranged signal for the archers and Eagle Claws to loose shaft after shaft, bolt after bolt into the army before them. Nodding down at his trusted lieutenant and standard bearer, Ashil, he ordered his regiments of Spearelves and Sword Masters forward to engage the foe.
As the blue-fletched arrows and bolts crashed down on the enemy, and his elves got closer and closer to the foe, the elf Prince silently prayed to Asuryan that the foe would engage before the window of time for a successful flank charge by him and his cavalry passed. And, just as his forces reached the centre of the battlefield, the forces of Chaos charged, tribes racing each other, warriors beating each other in order to be the first to draw blood, their mutated hounds in the lead.
Analael silently cheered, before gently touching his heels to his mount’s flanks, such was the bond between the two that that was all it took to start the warhorse to smoothly start towards the foe, his knights following swiftly behind them. As they neared the enemy, the prince and his guard easily couched their lances, and prepared for the bone-crushing impact soon to follow. The norsemen closest to the knights began to realize their earlier folly, and tried desperately to turn to face these new attackers, but it was too late, the Knights of Tor Lupa crashed into their number, lances slaughtering dozens of the tribesmen, before impacts and weight forced them to break or be dropped.
Seeing the thunderous charge of their lord, the Spearelf shieldwall that had provided the anvil that prepared the invaders to be outflanked, changed tactics. Spears scythed through the unarmoured forms in front of them, each strike a killing blow. The Sword Masters, warriors without peer, also went on the offensive. With greatswords shining through the air, limbs, heads and bodies fell with deceptively peaceful grace. The marauders being attacked were dead before they even had chance to register the killing motion.
As the Asur forces started to push the enemy, Aralael, too focused on the immediate foe, failed to notice that the Warriors, the shock troops of the horde, and its general, Malokai, had not yet entered the fray. He did not realize this until his Household Guard themselves came under attack, effortlessly hacked down or pulled from their steeds by unnatural might before Aralael himself was confronted by the unholy, daemonic visage of Malokai the Grim.
Unnerved by the sudden appearance of his enemy the Elf commander hesitated, giving the Chaos Lord time to reach his horse and snap the beast's neck with a simple flick of his wrist, sending Analael tumbling painfully to the ground. Disorientated, the Elf staggered to his feet before drawing his ancestral blade and settling into a fighting stance. Malokai smiled arrogantly, before making a gesture and gripping the scythe that materialized out of the air.
Using his natural elven grace and speed, Analael struck swiftly and deadly, his enchanted blade easily allowing him to pierce his foes defences, knocking him back and cutting into his evil, rune-encrusted armour. However, his enemy's foul gods and their enchantments protected their servant.
In return the dread warrior swung his scythe in a bedazzling array of circles, the pattern of attacks being almost impossible to defend against. Blows rained down upon the elf only to be turned aside by the magical scale he was girded in. Unfortunately even the best armour is not infallible and Analael took a grievous blow, the scythe ripping through the muscle of the elf’s side. Sensing that the battle would be lost if he didn’t do something soon, the noble Sapherian stood and, taking hold of his sword in two hands, batted his foe’s scythe aside and stabbed deep into his chest, the effort making his wound tear wider.
Collapsing on the ground, the last thing he saw was Malokai’s body consuming itself with a multi-hued flame, leaving no trace behind. His vision faded to nothing and the Prince smiled, knowing he had defended Ulthuan’s soil once more, content to die knowing he had succeeded.