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“Mind your surroundings, boy!”
Turin spun instinctively at the shout, narrowly evading the orc’s vicious great axe. His huge shield smashed the orc in the back as his great sword impaled the goblin trying to get to his flank amidst the confusion of the battle. The grizzled old warrior cut the now falling orc down with his own huge sword.
“Now that’s more like it, boy,” he called with a blood-splattered smile. “We’ll make a proper merc out of you yet.”
Turin smiled, his face covered in as much dark blood as the old man’s. “Remember, Pop, I’m destined for greatness.”
As he spoke the last word, sarcasm filled his voice, bringing a laugh from the old man even as he continued to slash and stab his way through the horde of orcs and goblins.
“You’re destined for a great ass-whoopin if you keep that kind of talk up, boy.”
The two warriors continued to trade barbs as they fought with the ferociousness of Northmen barbarians tempered with the tactical and technical artistry that can only be had from years of constant training and discipline. Their heavy plate armor was a stark contrast to the studded leather of most of the troops bearing the mark of the Red Ravens. Out of the company strong contingent engaged against the horde, only a handful wore such heavy armor. They were the elite, heavy infantry of the Red Ravens. Most called them Meat Shields…but not to their faces. They took the brunt of any assault with a glee that made them seem completely mad to the average merc. Their heavy armor absorbing blow after blow while their huge weapons…mostly great swords and war maces…devastated the enemy ranks. The hide and chain armor of the orcs were simply no match for these highly skilled warriors.
Later that evening, as the troops tended their wounded and cleaned and polished their arms and armor, the heavy infantry sat separated from the rest of the company. There was no written rule discouraging them from fraternizing with the standard mercs. It was just that most were not comfortable being near these warriors outside of battle.
“Boy, you are going to have to start watching your back more,” the old man said to Turin as they cleaned the gore from the crooks and crannies of their plate. “You know I ain’t always going to be around to watch it for you.”
“Keep your head in the fight, or some damn fool orc will keep it on his wall.”
Turin smiled and nodded. While he knew the old man was right, he just couldn’t resist the urge to return with a sarcastic quip.
“Maybe I should start collecting orc heads so when one comes for mine, I can just toss one of them at it and call it even.”
A few of the other heavy infantry chuckled at the mental picture of that. The old man just grinned and sighed.
“Greatness, they tell me.” He looked at Turin with a squint. “Only thing great about you is your smart-ass mouth, boy.”
This brought hearty laughs from almost everyone around the fire. Even Turing chuckled at the comment and the old man joined in when his sour countenance finally broke. “You’re learning, boy.”
“I’ll always have your back, Pop. You have my word on that.”
The old man nodded with a warm smile. “Aye, boy. And I’ll always have yours.”
He chuckled and stretched his shoulder a bit with a grimace. “At least until this old body finally gives out on me.”
This brought about a new wave of jibes and friendly insults followed by equally friendly retorts that lasted well into the night as they all finished cleaning their armor and sharpening their weapons. Tomorrow promised to be another day filled with blood, battle, and death. There seemed to be no end to the orc horde in the Stonelands.
Turin awoke from his dream of battle alongside his old mentor. The man he had come to look at as a father. He had taken to calling him Pop just a couple years before the old man retired and moved to Neverwinter. Turin actually missed the old coot.
He looked around at the sparse barracks room he shared with others in the Triumverate. It was actually nicer than his old barracks with the Ravens. Not as nice as the temple room he was put up in as he trained with the priests that had such high hopes for him, but better than what he was used to.
He looked around at the others sleeping in the room with him and sighed to himself. Almost all of them had been trained since childhood to take up the mantle of paladin. Most followed Torm, Tyr, or Helm. Some followed other good deities, but they were in the minority. But all were dedicated to their path as paladins and instruments of their lords’ might. They had known nothing else.
Turin slumped slightly in his bunk. He missed the company of the Ravens. They were crude and crass, but it seemed more like a family than this place and these people. The Ravens would fight the good fight by day and enjoy the life they had been given at night. These paladins simply fought evil, said prayers, and slept.
Is it wrong to enjoy life every now and then? Many of the people sleeping before him refuse to have an ale with comrades. They refuse to even think of games of chance to wind down after a hard fought battle. They refuse to…live.
Martyr’s Progeny.
These words keep haunting his dreams and waking mind. His parents were taken by the very god he now serves faithfully. Is it blasphemy to even question this? Is it wrong to think what would have happened if Torm’s grand plan had not worked and he was defeated by Bane even after all those people sacrificed their lives? Is it wrong to…question?
Turin rose from bed, the dream still vivid in his mind. He made his way to the small window to gaze out upon the barracks’ grounds.
People still moved around the streets. The moon had barely crested the horizon.
Turin sighed. He had only been asleep an hour or so even though the dream seemed to last days. Now he was wide awake and questions kept filling his head. Some were simple. How’s the old man doing? Or: What evil will tomorrow bring against us?
Some were bordering on blasphemy. He questioned Torm’s decisions almost daily. Why did my parents have to die? Why was I chosen to act as one of Torm’s paladins? Why do the priests think I have a destiny among Torm’s church just because my parents died in his service?
Questions, questions.
Turin quietly got dressed. Well, as quietly as one can don plate armor, that is. None of the others woke to his soft clanking, so either they were extremely tired or he had been quiet enough.
Dressed in his full plate complete with his sword at his side and shield across his back, the most unlikely of paladins made his way to the Half Pint tavern. Maybe an ale or two would help quiet the questions and let him get back to sleep.
Might take three or four, though.
Turin spun instinctively at the shout, narrowly evading the orc’s vicious great axe. His huge shield smashed the orc in the back as his great sword impaled the goblin trying to get to his flank amidst the confusion of the battle. The grizzled old warrior cut the now falling orc down with his own huge sword.
“Now that’s more like it, boy,” he called with a blood-splattered smile. “We’ll make a proper merc out of you yet.”
Turin smiled, his face covered in as much dark blood as the old man’s. “Remember, Pop, I’m destined for greatness.”
As he spoke the last word, sarcasm filled his voice, bringing a laugh from the old man even as he continued to slash and stab his way through the horde of orcs and goblins.
“You’re destined for a great ass-whoopin if you keep that kind of talk up, boy.”
The two warriors continued to trade barbs as they fought with the ferociousness of Northmen barbarians tempered with the tactical and technical artistry that can only be had from years of constant training and discipline. Their heavy plate armor was a stark contrast to the studded leather of most of the troops bearing the mark of the Red Ravens. Out of the company strong contingent engaged against the horde, only a handful wore such heavy armor. They were the elite, heavy infantry of the Red Ravens. Most called them Meat Shields…but not to their faces. They took the brunt of any assault with a glee that made them seem completely mad to the average merc. Their heavy armor absorbing blow after blow while their huge weapons…mostly great swords and war maces…devastated the enemy ranks. The hide and chain armor of the orcs were simply no match for these highly skilled warriors.
Later that evening, as the troops tended their wounded and cleaned and polished their arms and armor, the heavy infantry sat separated from the rest of the company. There was no written rule discouraging them from fraternizing with the standard mercs. It was just that most were not comfortable being near these warriors outside of battle.
“Boy, you are going to have to start watching your back more,” the old man said to Turin as they cleaned the gore from the crooks and crannies of their plate. “You know I ain’t always going to be around to watch it for you.”
“Keep your head in the fight, or some damn fool orc will keep it on his wall.”
Turin smiled and nodded. While he knew the old man was right, he just couldn’t resist the urge to return with a sarcastic quip.
“Maybe I should start collecting orc heads so when one comes for mine, I can just toss one of them at it and call it even.”
A few of the other heavy infantry chuckled at the mental picture of that. The old man just grinned and sighed.
“Greatness, they tell me.” He looked at Turin with a squint. “Only thing great about you is your smart-ass mouth, boy.”
This brought hearty laughs from almost everyone around the fire. Even Turing chuckled at the comment and the old man joined in when his sour countenance finally broke. “You’re learning, boy.”
“I’ll always have your back, Pop. You have my word on that.”
The old man nodded with a warm smile. “Aye, boy. And I’ll always have yours.”
He chuckled and stretched his shoulder a bit with a grimace. “At least until this old body finally gives out on me.”
This brought about a new wave of jibes and friendly insults followed by equally friendly retorts that lasted well into the night as they all finished cleaning their armor and sharpening their weapons. Tomorrow promised to be another day filled with blood, battle, and death. There seemed to be no end to the orc horde in the Stonelands.
Turin awoke from his dream of battle alongside his old mentor. The man he had come to look at as a father. He had taken to calling him Pop just a couple years before the old man retired and moved to Neverwinter. Turin actually missed the old coot.
He looked around at the sparse barracks room he shared with others in the Triumverate. It was actually nicer than his old barracks with the Ravens. Not as nice as the temple room he was put up in as he trained with the priests that had such high hopes for him, but better than what he was used to.
He looked around at the others sleeping in the room with him and sighed to himself. Almost all of them had been trained since childhood to take up the mantle of paladin. Most followed Torm, Tyr, or Helm. Some followed other good deities, but they were in the minority. But all were dedicated to their path as paladins and instruments of their lords’ might. They had known nothing else.
Turin slumped slightly in his bunk. He missed the company of the Ravens. They were crude and crass, but it seemed more like a family than this place and these people. The Ravens would fight the good fight by day and enjoy the life they had been given at night. These paladins simply fought evil, said prayers, and slept.
Is it wrong to enjoy life every now and then? Many of the people sleeping before him refuse to have an ale with comrades. They refuse to even think of games of chance to wind down after a hard fought battle. They refuse to…live.
Martyr’s Progeny.
These words keep haunting his dreams and waking mind. His parents were taken by the very god he now serves faithfully. Is it blasphemy to even question this? Is it wrong to think what would have happened if Torm’s grand plan had not worked and he was defeated by Bane even after all those people sacrificed their lives? Is it wrong to…question?
Turin rose from bed, the dream still vivid in his mind. He made his way to the small window to gaze out upon the barracks’ grounds.
People still moved around the streets. The moon had barely crested the horizon.
Turin sighed. He had only been asleep an hour or so even though the dream seemed to last days. Now he was wide awake and questions kept filling his head. Some were simple. How’s the old man doing? Or: What evil will tomorrow bring against us?
Some were bordering on blasphemy. He questioned Torm’s decisions almost daily. Why did my parents have to die? Why was I chosen to act as one of Torm’s paladins? Why do the priests think I have a destiny among Torm’s church just because my parents died in his service?
Questions, questions.
Turin quietly got dressed. Well, as quietly as one can don plate armor, that is. None of the others woke to his soft clanking, so either they were extremely tired or he had been quiet enough.
Dressed in his full plate complete with his sword at his side and shield across his back, the most unlikely of paladins made his way to the Half Pint tavern. Maybe an ale or two would help quiet the questions and let him get back to sleep.
Might take three or four, though.
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