NationStates Jolt Archive

The White Mountains

The high mountains, rocky and intimidating, loom overhead as the natural guardians of the plains and the clans of Norgardia. A defense barrier which also serves as a cultural barrier. A chain of rock and snow, stretching countless leagues to the east, stretching from the northern most known regions to the southern coast of their lands. It is an awesome sight to behold even for those who've lived by them all their lives. From their bosom, the Norgardians have dug iron, limestone, and pure granite to build and prosper. They are respected and revered for all they give.

The Watchtower of Anu-Kar, one of multiple watchtowers that hold survey over the lands sits atop a smaller top known as Anu-Kar. It is a simple tower of stone with an ajoining stone hut with a thatched roof. At any time there are only six soldiers stationed at any watchtower. It is an isolated duty, boring, and unfulfilling at times. But, it is an important duty. The cold snaps at the back of a guard's neck as he wraps his faded green cloak around his body and makes way to the hut.

"Tis a cold day to be out" commented a soldier who sat on a bench inside the hut, over a bowl of oup and dipping a piece of bread into it.

"Aye, it is indeed, Frydr." the soldier replied, moving straight for the fire. "Sir, will you not eat?" the soldier said to a tall figure standing off to the side.

The man turned around, his face was rough and unshaven, black hair with hazel eyes. "Nay, Borthar. I hunger not for food" he replied, looking off through the wall to something unknown.

"Atticus-I mean Captain, you must eat!" pleaded Frydr through a mouthful of bread. "You must stay strong"

"For what?!" Atticus snapped "I will never taste battle again, not in this place" he fumed.

"Captain, stay your anger. Young Frydr means no harm in his words." Borthar replied. He was an older man, having been stationed here for many years.

The men gathered around the fire inside, placing more wood on it and huddled for warmth. They laughed, joked and some rested. Not Atticus, his mind has yet to find peace. Nighttime is falling, it is always most dangerous at night, anywhere in the lands of men...

Atop the keep stands a lone figure, a tired and weary senrty. The cold whipped again and he shuddered, cursing the gods for such weather. It was his duty; however, to continue his watch just for a time longer then he too would be in the warmth of the hut, food in his stomach and drink running down his throat. Until then, he must remain vigilant.

Suddenly, a gust of wind snapped up again, spraying snow from a nearby cliff towards the tower, he braced himself, turning away from the snow blast. As he turned, something else traveled with the snow. An arrow pierced his side, sticking out, bloodied. He froze...dropping the spear to the deck. He couldn't choke out a word, nor reach the bell, he staggered, weezing and struggling to stay alive. The young sentry collapsed, going into shock. Over the top of the keep came a set of furred paws, with black claws jutting out from them. The figure hoisted itself over the rail and onto the watch area. It was a beast, hind legs, dark, matted fur covering its' whole body. It opened it's mouth, revealing a row of razor sharp teeth, he wiped his snout and drew out a dagger.

"Rest human" it cackled and drew the dagger across the sentry's throat, warm blood rushing along the wooden floor. The creature stretched its' back and shook off some snow. He howled, signaling his fellow creatures. Off in the distance, a pack of these beasts stood up like men.

"Straad, it is the signal" said a beastman. Their leader, a beastman called Straad growled with delight.

"Tonight, we feast on their flesh" Straad replied and the monsters dropped to their four legs and ran down the ledges of the cliff with expertise and familiarity of the region and mountains. Soon, they would fall upon the garrison...

Thorir grew tiredsome of his dull and mundane duty as a watcher. There was no glory to be had, no one will sing songs of his great deeds and adventures. The deeds of a watcher are not song worthy in the great mead halls of Norgardia. Winters ago, as a young boy he'd sneak into the Hall of Oldenburg and hide as great chalices of mead clanked together, hearty laughs, and shouting. The Chief of the Oldenburg Clan raised his cup and barked for silence. Soon, the great hall fell into such an awaiting silence that young Thorir found himself captivated by it.

A bard stepped forth and leaped upon a long table, clearing his throat and smiling ear from ear. The tales he told...the songs he sung of brave warriors, epic deeds, selfless sacrifices for glory and justice. Thorir grew wide eyed and his imagination ran wild with the thought of being a great warrior someday, like his father Enthir. As the tale reached its' climax, a strong and massive hand yanked at his leg.

"Boy, you are of too young age to be in this hall. Be gone lest ye be whipped!" Growled his father. A man of great stature and a long black beard with numerous scars upon his body.

"Yes father!" young Thorir yelped and scurried off back to their home. From then on, he dreamt of nothing more than to become a warrior, a warrior to be remembered. The kind of warrior who fights for glory and dies a noble death...

He stepped outside of the hut as a gust of snow crept up oncemore. The White Mountains were unforgiving and dangerous. One false move can send a careless fool plummeting to his death. As he stepped to a ledge, his gaze moved across to the tower to see a shadow creep and disappear. It was no shadow of a man, but a beast.

"Damn the gods!" Thorir cursed and unsheathed his sword. "To arms! To arms!" he darted across to the watch tower. There was a rustle in the hut and the other men jammed out, spears, axes, and shields in hand.

"Of what threat is there?!" asked Frydr, shaking beneath his helmet. Thorir sensed that there was danger. Suddenly, an arrow streaked past his ear, he could feel the wind snap against his cheek. A dozen hulking shadows approached.

"We are under attack!" Thorir shouted and charged into the blinding snow. The others hesitated but soon followed. The shouts and grunts of men, their shields and swords colliding with a vicious foe which howled and growled in battle. It was fierce as the beastmen, with their superior strength, threw soldiers around like child's dolls, bashing them against the rocks. The screams of fragile men, echoed through the mountains as Thorir struggled for his life.

"Fight me!" Thorir demanded as a beastman turned to face him, a black axe in his pawed hand. Drool cascaded from its' open jaws and cackled. It raised the axe and charged. Thorir barreled forward and ducked as the heavy axe swung forth. He fell to the ground and drew his blade against the beast's leg, severing several muscles, causing it to collapse to the ground. Thorir finished the foul beast with another stroke and rushed on. Soon, the sounds died all around him, he was alone.

"Frydr?!" Thorir called for his friend, there was no reply.

"You stand alone" a growl bellowed.

"Who challenges me?" Thorir stood ready for any attack, his blade was red and clothes splattered.

"There is no challenge, only a slow death for thee" the monster laughed.