EVENT
Administrator
Posts: 1
|
Post by EVENT on Feb 24, 2012 18:59:44 GMT 8
EVENT!
The Stormcloak's stand in the courtyard of Fort Dunstad, awaiting their Legion opponents to come into the view. With the gates open, the soldiers are ready for a battle as their archers stand proudly on the wall, ready to fire.
Close, the Legion are preparing to charge and take the Fort away to strengthen their cause - a skirmish that could not be avoided.
(( Open to all members who wish to participate in this small battle ))
|
|
|
|
Post by LLYENAL on Feb 26, 2012 2:29:41 GMT 8
If there was one thing Llyenal could say she (justifiably) hated, it was the deadly quiet that accompanied the short minutes before a battle was expected to begin. The tension was almost palpable, like a warbling, pitched string on a lute that was far too sharp to be heard with ease. Certainly, she wasn't here to fight and the only weapon she had on her was short dagger, but she could feel the anxious excitement bubbling in the pit of her stomach, same as the others. Though she was tucked quite safely away with the other men and women who considered themselves healers (and the number was a fair amount, considering the Nords' almost-natural distrust of anything magic), she felt worry and fear and apprehension all rolled into one. Yet she knew she was at least a fraction safer than the others who actually deigned to fight; she couldn't even begin to imagine how they must feel.
Sometimes, the woman regretted her decision to be a healer of the arcan art and that decision wasn't one she could actively explain. Some days she pinned in on fear, other days she pinned it on a righteous indignation against the Empire - she wanted to reverse any effort they put forward into slaughtering her kinsmen.
But still, she supposed, her face pale as she peered around the wooden support of the shelter, watching the proud archers and sturdy soldiers; blaming it on fear and cowardice was probably the right way to go. All things considered, she did not care for the war or harvest bitter feelings for anyone in the Imperial Legion who weren't the ones to arrest her parents. The bard only used that particular excuse to remain admired in the eyes of her comrades, who were all quick to announce their hatred for both the Empite and the damned Thalmor.
The redhead whipped her head back inside when an unheard whisper set every person shifting uncomfortably, the sound of chainmail and leather rustling the harbinger of what would probably be a bloody battle. No doubt the Legion's distinctive red and silver armor had been spotted, and once again Llyenal found herself nervously awaiting the thrum of arrows travelling on tempests of air, and the agonized shouts that would follow. |
|
