Pantera
20-07-2004, 07:10
{OOC: This is just for me to pass the time. Comments are welcome. Hope you like}
The stories of heros are never short, nor are they filled with the kisses of maidens...
Prologue:
The summer of 1099 a fierce storm had swept the lands that would one day be called Pantera. This storm was no storm of howling wind and stinging rain, but a storm of screaming men and slashing blades.
For near two hundred years the tribes had been at peace. Culture and trade had flourished and they began to traverse the seas in great, narrow ships, seemingly frail among the crashing waves. Long and thin they were, but made by men who knew their craft. Their longships had sliced through the waters and the tribesmen had raped and robbed across many lands. This lifestyle had given the voyagers a taste for lifestyles previously unknown in their homeland, and soon this homeland began to change.
Some tribes prospered from the fabulous wealth the raiding had returned, but others did more than prosper. A few of these tribes rose to be paramount among the lands that would once be called Pantera.
One tribe, the Reavers rose high and above the rest. Their Lords reigned and their warriors raped and conquered, and soon they began to swallow up smaller tribes, ever swelling their own numbers.
Many legendary men lived during this, the Age of the Rising. Men whose names even now echo across earth and heaven, their songs sung and their deeds praised daily. But, there is one who is not known to many in this world. His name has not been spoken in lifetimes, and no songs have been sung in praise of his Honor, though it was as great as any mans.
This Hero was unlike the rest. He never craved fame or the riches of far off lands. He never craved greatness of any sort, but it was his, all the same. Even now he sits, forgotten by men, but remembered by the spirits of the earth, and his own brother warriors, who now reside alongside him in the Halls of Valhalla.
The boy was furious. The man who called himself the 'King's Will' had stolen his horse. Oh, he had talked real fancy, like the chieftans used to, something about 'appropriating livestock to supplement the Royal herds' but in the end the bastard had stolen his horse.
Now he would be forced to walk back home, still some miles distant. When he got home his father would surely beat the hide from his little bottom. He blanched at the thought. Surely, he could get the horse back somehow. He just had to think about it hard enough. He was fast, and the man couldn't gallop the horse in the rain, as the road was slick and the beast might break a leg. He knew he could keep up.
Taking off into a run, the boys mind began to work. He would shadow the man, and his horse, until he came to the spot in the road with the cliffs on either side. Yes, yes... There, the man would be forced to slow. The boy would be able to drop a rock onto him, knocking him off the horse. He quickly thought about the consequences of if he missed, but the memory of his fathers strap on his thighs propelled him forward.
Upon reaching the cliffs, he fetched himself a large rock and hunkered down to wait, wet and weary, but afraid to return without his father's mount. He waited a long, long time, but began to get nervous when the man didn't come along the road. He thought of the way he howled the last time his father thrashed him, and waited longer.... He had finally decided that the 'Kings Will' had probably taken a different road when he saw the horse plod out of the curtain of rain.
At first the boy thought the rain was in his eyes and he was seeing things, but as the horse and man came closer, he saw that his eyes had shown him true. The man remained atop the horse, but not of his own accord. He was tied to the saddle, his torsoe flopping slightly with the gait of the beast.
The boy turned ran, far and as fast as he could. He would surely recieve the wost beating anyone had ever recieved.
Someone had slaughtered the man and tied him to his father's best saddle.
*********************************************************
Part 1 -- My sword is as sharp as your own, M'lord.
A fine morning it was! When he emerged from the darkened, dry confines of the great pine tree, Tryon Breckson stretched in the early morning sunlight. Though still sopping wet outside, the air was a crisp temperature that made his muscles ache to be used. He rolled his big shoulders, liking the feel of his muscles beneath his leather tunic.
Aye, a fine morning, though his head still hurt a bit. The previous evening was a mist of women and wine, but he had started home early, as he lived to the south, near Shine, but the rain began to pour. He had taken shelter in the protective boughs of the pine tree, wrapped up in his cloak, and promply passed out. He had awoken to the feeling of his sword's hilt digging into his ribs, but other than that and a light pain behind his eyes, he was feeling full of fire.
He pissed for what seemed an hour before groaning and setting off down the road. The bright sun was the first the lands of the Reaver tribe had seen in weeks and it quickly warmed his muscles. Feeling fine, he broke into an easy lope, his scabbard bouncing along at his hip and his thick mane of black hair flying along behind. He had always liked to run, and today it felt wonderful to move along at such a groundeating trot.
He had covered almost two miles when he glanced behind him to see a few horsemen crest a rise behind him. He scowled slightly, for noone used this road aside from him and a few farmfolk, all of whom rode plowhorses or drays, not large, magnificent warhorses such as these.
He shrugged and continued his run, but soon they kicked their horses into a run and began to close the gap. For a moment, Tryon feared he would be molested, but discarded the thought and continued.
In less than a minute, however, the men had overtaken him and one reined his horse violently about in front of him, causing the animal to rear violently and lash out with its hooves.
The men were dresses in bluish uniforms over finely made chainmail. They each had the look of breadmakers, rather than bloodletters, and he smiled amiably. However, the scowl on the one with the helm, who seemed to be the leader, warned him of trouble.
"Halt, dog, and submit to the questioning of the King's men!" And he began to draw his sword.
Tryon, however, was not about to be taken, by anyone, much less a 'king'. Everyone knew the tribes had no Kings.
Whipping his scabbard into one hand, his other on the hilt of his sword, he jerked the leather sheath from the longsword and swept it up into the armpit of his questioner. The man's squeel reminded Tryon of a girl's, but he was not amused. Another inch and he would run through the man's light layer of clothing, at the gap of chainmail tunic and sleeve.
When the man's companions, obviously men at arms, started forward, Tryon twisted the point of his sword and barked a threat at them which stopped them in their tracks,"Halt, or I spit your master like a duck. I'll gut him, I swear it....
"Now, dog, you will submit to the questions of a Free man." He applied a bit more pressure to the hilt of his sword and the tip bit through the clothing and into the fleshy underarm. The man squeeled again but nodded his head.
"On what grounds would you dare accost me? I recognize no King of yours, and I'm sure the chieftans of the Reavers would object to his being here." He pressed with his sword a bit more to send the essage that he wasn't ready for any lies. The good mood of the morning had evaporated, and now he might be forced to kill this fool.
The man whiined plaintively and tossed his head as he spoke, unable to move for fear that Tryon would split him,"Please drop that sword, boy, and you will recieve a fair trial. 'Tis the King of the Reavers who had sent me. One of his good servants was slain on this very road last night, as I think you know. A heinous crime, and one you will pay dearly for, I assure you."
Tryon laughed and poked the man again. "I would be more careful of making threats when I already have my sword in you. I killed noone last night. I was drunk and sleeping it off under a tree."
The noble snorted slightly but cut short at the insistence of the sword. He shook his head at Tryon, though, trying to seem unafraid,"You were fleeing the scene. I had a feeling you might have stuck around. We came upon you, running for your life after the slaughter of a good man. You will burn."
For a moment, Tryon chewed his lip. The Reavers had no king, but the man didn't seem mad or to be lying. He obviously hadn't killed anyone, but the man seemed to mequite convinced he had. He couldn't kill the bastard in cold blood, but he surely didn't want to be taken later and burned for a murder he did not commit.
Finally, he grabbed the noble by the arm and drug him from his seat atop the gorgeous chestnut. With a solid kick to the man's ribs, Tryon vaulted up into the saddle and walked the great warhorse back a few steps, his sword held forward to easily skewer the man with a light kick to the horse.
"Back. You've taken the wrong man, but I refuse to let you burn me for something I dinna commit. You'll be embarassed, you'll lose your horse, but I coulda killed you, and you coulda killed an innocent man. I'll leave you now, and hope you see better of your ways. Tell your King to find better men to serve him. You're worthless."
The noble screamed a curse and threatened,"I'll rape your mother, scum! Then I will see you dead on my sword, I swear it!"
His good mood returning, Tryon laughed down at the man and spun his horse, calling over his shoulder,"My mother died of the plague! And never forget that my sword is as sharp as your own, M'lord! Never forget!"
And with that, he kicked his new warhorse into a gallop, laughing and looking back to see the nobleman still sprawled in the mud, a look of outrage painted on his soft, woman's face.
*********************************************************
Part 2 -- Reflections of a newly outlawed outlaw...
Now, Tryon was no coward, but he was no fool either. With that in mind he pushed the great chuestnut warhorse far harder than he should have, putting many miles between him and his attackers. He was sure that pompous ass of a Lord would send a party to hunt him, but he intended to be far and away by that time.
Still, the horse was only good to him alive, and he slowed, cursing himself for running the beast so long. He was a fine mount, quick to pick up the traits of the rider and respond accordingly. Tryon was pleased that he had him, but not with the way he had come into his posession.
The event had left a sour taste in his mouth, even after putting the noble in the dirt had lifted his spirits. It irritated him that the man would have accosted him. A murder investigation was all well and good, but the man had simply siezed Tryon himself and pronounced guilt. Troubling...
It occurred to him that by resisting and stealing the horse that he had only proven to them his guilt, but he was quite sure that he would have burned before the sun fell, as convinced as the man had seemed. Damn fool... He thought angrily. He had been so caught up in the authority he had been given that he had gone wild with it, intent on purging the first person he saw.
This news of a Reaver King was troubling. If one of the Chieftans had named himself King there would be war soon. The tribes did not have 'Kings', for only cowards would bend the knee to a man simply because he was born 'noble'. On the ships nobility counted for about as much as pissing over the rail, and on land almost as little.
If war was on its way, Tryon would have preferred to ride into the South. He had never been before, and Sunspear sounded like a fabulously adventurous place to live. But, he knew that was out of the question. His home was in the North, and if the Reavers were going to war, the Shining Tribes would as well, and he would be with them.
He hated the thought that he might be forced to kill or to die, simply because another man craved the power that came with the title of 'king', but that was the price of claiming himself a Free Man. To be Free a man had to defend oneself from those who would conquer him. 'Freedom' to him was only a word, much like 'King', but the meaning was what inspired him and so many others. He'd often thought that Freedom was only sweet to those who were opressed, but that thought kept his sword sharp.
There were a few Kings in the South, and many more in the rich lands to the west, and they in the North occasionally recieved word of such. Most of it was not inspiring. Kings opressed their people, abused them and ruled them harshly. This was confusing to the free-roaming and thinking tribesmen of the North. They ruled themselves.
But, not anymore, he reminded himself. Now a man wished to rule them, rather than letting them govern themselves as they wished. Tryon knew that though his intentions might be noble, that he probably saw himself as a great leader, but he also knew that power corrupted. The Shining Tribes would never bend the knee to someone who would most surely come to opress them one day, so they would fight... And so would he.
Kicking his mount in hte flanks, he came to a gallop once more, following the road a few more miles before leaving it and crossing the stream that seperated the lands of Reaver and Shine. His home was only a few miles distant, and he would need his armor and his other things if a campaign against the Reavers was coming. He would gather his gear before riding hard for Shine. There he would join the tribal chieftans, to hear their thoughts on this new King.
A voice echoed in his head,"Why don't you get out while you can?" But he had no answer.
The stories of heros are never short, nor are they filled with the kisses of maidens...
Prologue:
The summer of 1099 a fierce storm had swept the lands that would one day be called Pantera. This storm was no storm of howling wind and stinging rain, but a storm of screaming men and slashing blades.
For near two hundred years the tribes had been at peace. Culture and trade had flourished and they began to traverse the seas in great, narrow ships, seemingly frail among the crashing waves. Long and thin they were, but made by men who knew their craft. Their longships had sliced through the waters and the tribesmen had raped and robbed across many lands. This lifestyle had given the voyagers a taste for lifestyles previously unknown in their homeland, and soon this homeland began to change.
Some tribes prospered from the fabulous wealth the raiding had returned, but others did more than prosper. A few of these tribes rose to be paramount among the lands that would once be called Pantera.
One tribe, the Reavers rose high and above the rest. Their Lords reigned and their warriors raped and conquered, and soon they began to swallow up smaller tribes, ever swelling their own numbers.
Many legendary men lived during this, the Age of the Rising. Men whose names even now echo across earth and heaven, their songs sung and their deeds praised daily. But, there is one who is not known to many in this world. His name has not been spoken in lifetimes, and no songs have been sung in praise of his Honor, though it was as great as any mans.
This Hero was unlike the rest. He never craved fame or the riches of far off lands. He never craved greatness of any sort, but it was his, all the same. Even now he sits, forgotten by men, but remembered by the spirits of the earth, and his own brother warriors, who now reside alongside him in the Halls of Valhalla.
The boy was furious. The man who called himself the 'King's Will' had stolen his horse. Oh, he had talked real fancy, like the chieftans used to, something about 'appropriating livestock to supplement the Royal herds' but in the end the bastard had stolen his horse.
Now he would be forced to walk back home, still some miles distant. When he got home his father would surely beat the hide from his little bottom. He blanched at the thought. Surely, he could get the horse back somehow. He just had to think about it hard enough. He was fast, and the man couldn't gallop the horse in the rain, as the road was slick and the beast might break a leg. He knew he could keep up.
Taking off into a run, the boys mind began to work. He would shadow the man, and his horse, until he came to the spot in the road with the cliffs on either side. Yes, yes... There, the man would be forced to slow. The boy would be able to drop a rock onto him, knocking him off the horse. He quickly thought about the consequences of if he missed, but the memory of his fathers strap on his thighs propelled him forward.
Upon reaching the cliffs, he fetched himself a large rock and hunkered down to wait, wet and weary, but afraid to return without his father's mount. He waited a long, long time, but began to get nervous when the man didn't come along the road. He thought of the way he howled the last time his father thrashed him, and waited longer.... He had finally decided that the 'Kings Will' had probably taken a different road when he saw the horse plod out of the curtain of rain.
At first the boy thought the rain was in his eyes and he was seeing things, but as the horse and man came closer, he saw that his eyes had shown him true. The man remained atop the horse, but not of his own accord. He was tied to the saddle, his torsoe flopping slightly with the gait of the beast.
The boy turned ran, far and as fast as he could. He would surely recieve the wost beating anyone had ever recieved.
Someone had slaughtered the man and tied him to his father's best saddle.
*********************************************************
Part 1 -- My sword is as sharp as your own, M'lord.
A fine morning it was! When he emerged from the darkened, dry confines of the great pine tree, Tryon Breckson stretched in the early morning sunlight. Though still sopping wet outside, the air was a crisp temperature that made his muscles ache to be used. He rolled his big shoulders, liking the feel of his muscles beneath his leather tunic.
Aye, a fine morning, though his head still hurt a bit. The previous evening was a mist of women and wine, but he had started home early, as he lived to the south, near Shine, but the rain began to pour. He had taken shelter in the protective boughs of the pine tree, wrapped up in his cloak, and promply passed out. He had awoken to the feeling of his sword's hilt digging into his ribs, but other than that and a light pain behind his eyes, he was feeling full of fire.
He pissed for what seemed an hour before groaning and setting off down the road. The bright sun was the first the lands of the Reaver tribe had seen in weeks and it quickly warmed his muscles. Feeling fine, he broke into an easy lope, his scabbard bouncing along at his hip and his thick mane of black hair flying along behind. He had always liked to run, and today it felt wonderful to move along at such a groundeating trot.
He had covered almost two miles when he glanced behind him to see a few horsemen crest a rise behind him. He scowled slightly, for noone used this road aside from him and a few farmfolk, all of whom rode plowhorses or drays, not large, magnificent warhorses such as these.
He shrugged and continued his run, but soon they kicked their horses into a run and began to close the gap. For a moment, Tryon feared he would be molested, but discarded the thought and continued.
In less than a minute, however, the men had overtaken him and one reined his horse violently about in front of him, causing the animal to rear violently and lash out with its hooves.
The men were dresses in bluish uniforms over finely made chainmail. They each had the look of breadmakers, rather than bloodletters, and he smiled amiably. However, the scowl on the one with the helm, who seemed to be the leader, warned him of trouble.
"Halt, dog, and submit to the questioning of the King's men!" And he began to draw his sword.
Tryon, however, was not about to be taken, by anyone, much less a 'king'. Everyone knew the tribes had no Kings.
Whipping his scabbard into one hand, his other on the hilt of his sword, he jerked the leather sheath from the longsword and swept it up into the armpit of his questioner. The man's squeel reminded Tryon of a girl's, but he was not amused. Another inch and he would run through the man's light layer of clothing, at the gap of chainmail tunic and sleeve.
When the man's companions, obviously men at arms, started forward, Tryon twisted the point of his sword and barked a threat at them which stopped them in their tracks,"Halt, or I spit your master like a duck. I'll gut him, I swear it....
"Now, dog, you will submit to the questions of a Free man." He applied a bit more pressure to the hilt of his sword and the tip bit through the clothing and into the fleshy underarm. The man squeeled again but nodded his head.
"On what grounds would you dare accost me? I recognize no King of yours, and I'm sure the chieftans of the Reavers would object to his being here." He pressed with his sword a bit more to send the essage that he wasn't ready for any lies. The good mood of the morning had evaporated, and now he might be forced to kill this fool.
The man whiined plaintively and tossed his head as he spoke, unable to move for fear that Tryon would split him,"Please drop that sword, boy, and you will recieve a fair trial. 'Tis the King of the Reavers who had sent me. One of his good servants was slain on this very road last night, as I think you know. A heinous crime, and one you will pay dearly for, I assure you."
Tryon laughed and poked the man again. "I would be more careful of making threats when I already have my sword in you. I killed noone last night. I was drunk and sleeping it off under a tree."
The noble snorted slightly but cut short at the insistence of the sword. He shook his head at Tryon, though, trying to seem unafraid,"You were fleeing the scene. I had a feeling you might have stuck around. We came upon you, running for your life after the slaughter of a good man. You will burn."
For a moment, Tryon chewed his lip. The Reavers had no king, but the man didn't seem mad or to be lying. He obviously hadn't killed anyone, but the man seemed to mequite convinced he had. He couldn't kill the bastard in cold blood, but he surely didn't want to be taken later and burned for a murder he did not commit.
Finally, he grabbed the noble by the arm and drug him from his seat atop the gorgeous chestnut. With a solid kick to the man's ribs, Tryon vaulted up into the saddle and walked the great warhorse back a few steps, his sword held forward to easily skewer the man with a light kick to the horse.
"Back. You've taken the wrong man, but I refuse to let you burn me for something I dinna commit. You'll be embarassed, you'll lose your horse, but I coulda killed you, and you coulda killed an innocent man. I'll leave you now, and hope you see better of your ways. Tell your King to find better men to serve him. You're worthless."
The noble screamed a curse and threatened,"I'll rape your mother, scum! Then I will see you dead on my sword, I swear it!"
His good mood returning, Tryon laughed down at the man and spun his horse, calling over his shoulder,"My mother died of the plague! And never forget that my sword is as sharp as your own, M'lord! Never forget!"
And with that, he kicked his new warhorse into a gallop, laughing and looking back to see the nobleman still sprawled in the mud, a look of outrage painted on his soft, woman's face.
*********************************************************
Part 2 -- Reflections of a newly outlawed outlaw...
Now, Tryon was no coward, but he was no fool either. With that in mind he pushed the great chuestnut warhorse far harder than he should have, putting many miles between him and his attackers. He was sure that pompous ass of a Lord would send a party to hunt him, but he intended to be far and away by that time.
Still, the horse was only good to him alive, and he slowed, cursing himself for running the beast so long. He was a fine mount, quick to pick up the traits of the rider and respond accordingly. Tryon was pleased that he had him, but not with the way he had come into his posession.
The event had left a sour taste in his mouth, even after putting the noble in the dirt had lifted his spirits. It irritated him that the man would have accosted him. A murder investigation was all well and good, but the man had simply siezed Tryon himself and pronounced guilt. Troubling...
It occurred to him that by resisting and stealing the horse that he had only proven to them his guilt, but he was quite sure that he would have burned before the sun fell, as convinced as the man had seemed. Damn fool... He thought angrily. He had been so caught up in the authority he had been given that he had gone wild with it, intent on purging the first person he saw.
This news of a Reaver King was troubling. If one of the Chieftans had named himself King there would be war soon. The tribes did not have 'Kings', for only cowards would bend the knee to a man simply because he was born 'noble'. On the ships nobility counted for about as much as pissing over the rail, and on land almost as little.
If war was on its way, Tryon would have preferred to ride into the South. He had never been before, and Sunspear sounded like a fabulously adventurous place to live. But, he knew that was out of the question. His home was in the North, and if the Reavers were going to war, the Shining Tribes would as well, and he would be with them.
He hated the thought that he might be forced to kill or to die, simply because another man craved the power that came with the title of 'king', but that was the price of claiming himself a Free Man. To be Free a man had to defend oneself from those who would conquer him. 'Freedom' to him was only a word, much like 'King', but the meaning was what inspired him and so many others. He'd often thought that Freedom was only sweet to those who were opressed, but that thought kept his sword sharp.
There were a few Kings in the South, and many more in the rich lands to the west, and they in the North occasionally recieved word of such. Most of it was not inspiring. Kings opressed their people, abused them and ruled them harshly. This was confusing to the free-roaming and thinking tribesmen of the North. They ruled themselves.
But, not anymore, he reminded himself. Now a man wished to rule them, rather than letting them govern themselves as they wished. Tryon knew that though his intentions might be noble, that he probably saw himself as a great leader, but he also knew that power corrupted. The Shining Tribes would never bend the knee to someone who would most surely come to opress them one day, so they would fight... And so would he.
Kicking his mount in hte flanks, he came to a gallop once more, following the road a few more miles before leaving it and crossing the stream that seperated the lands of Reaver and Shine. His home was only a few miles distant, and he would need his armor and his other things if a campaign against the Reavers was coming. He would gather his gear before riding hard for Shine. There he would join the tribal chieftans, to hear their thoughts on this new King.
A voice echoed in his head,"Why don't you get out while you can?" But he had no answer.