akumashioni
I'd rather die than go to heaven
(Ok first, all of your posts give me headaches, second, how do you know I'm a knight? Not like I'm in full armor, I'm a politician at a banquet.)Opium said:Melmoth had emerged hastily from the evanescent mists of the moor, his steed galloped with an unyielding mettle as it bestride the plateaus and minor and sheer-deep depressions. As his mount repose to a canter toward the portcullis, frantic men desperately struggled to labour, heaving at the mechanism to elevate the leaden gate.
"Our worthy lord - he requites his return!" a sergeant caterwauled in a harsh, rasping voice.
Melmoth's stallion stampede within the bailey, those in tuition in how to appropriate a sword in the yard present no salutation, yearning to assimilate the understanding of how their Lord once fought. An obligatory communion of mingling noblemen socialized with one another. A chiming clang resonate as hammer hit steel, refining the brand into a sword - as came a sputtering hiss when molten metal made contact with gelid waters of the forge. The prattling ramble of children in their youth was derived as nothing but blather.
An assertive, unperturbed squire strolled to his mount as Melmoth reared the stallion, diverging from it's saddle and trampling the ground with his hefty boots, they trod into the mud with vigour.
"M'lord, we are delighted with your return," he bowed, in his hand a respective document, knowingly addressing Melmoth. As he tread toward the squire, his armour clanking with sonority, he seized the letter from his fist with a mere yank. The neurotic squire stumbled over his words, stammering as he attempt to state his expressions.
"I- we uh-" the squire stuttered.
Melmoth was hushed, attentive to the contents.
"A-An invitation, mi'lord, pe-petitioning your acceptance to attend a f-feast," he remark.
Without an utterance, Melmoth saddled the mount and promptly instanter the reigns with a lashing motion. The mount whinnied and traversed, then scrambling from the bailey courtyard, hurtling from the portcullis and drawbridge as he charged onward to the capital.
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The nightly streets weren't as vibrant nor hectic when in the prime hour, instead vendors meandered and dawdled in proximity of their stalls, fastening latches with padlocks and closing down for the night. A retinue of guardsmen patrolled, the incandescent flicker of their torches governing the route.
Melmoth rode toward the vicinity of the alabaster castle.
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There were subtle shrieks at first, then gradually reverberate the clamouring wails and howls, bawling hollers of
"Fucking imps," snarled he whom mount the stallion, a guttural, metallic growl.
Melmoth slapped the leashes and his mount struck it's hooves into the cobbled stone, resonating with a distinctive, grating clatter. As a precaution, he adjust his saddle, securing his stance as he streamed a single Shashka from it's holster, his fist clamped firm on the reign.
His stallion permeate through concerned congregated amasses of civilians and soldiers alike.
"Halt!" a guardsman roared, upraising his open palm at Melmoth, whom precariously battered into sending the guardsman sprawling and slouching upon the gravel, laying prostrate.
The sight was distraught, overwrought with soldiers attempting to repel the hysterical and demented horde of hideous, fuck-ugly imps. Their flailing arms thrashed at shields and floundered into men, tumbling as an assembly of them scaled the bulwarks and scaffolding.
One screamed as it wail at Melmoth, blundering with an agitated temper toward him. It leaped, bounding at chest-height with it's weapon poised for his vulnerable neck. Yet Melmoth's blade met its maniacal head with his steel, delivering a debilitating blow that macerate the imp's jaw. His mouth hung agape as it's pulverized cranium caved into itself, a disturbing assemblage of gore leaked from its mouth. There was no sound, no noise. No afflicting torment of agony. It was instant.
The imp smacked into the unforgiving stone, laying limp with a perplexed expression of a distraught gaze.
(Listen to enhance atmosphere of the next paragraph @1:30).
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Amidst the flocking herd was a lady (@Comet ) and knight (@akumashioni ), discordant from one another with their typical manner. Melmoth enclosed upon their predicament, then offering his hand to the lady, lessening her harrowing worry of plight. At once, from the saddle, his mount counterpoise as he digressed from it.
"Hasten for the Guild, now!" he stipulate, bestowing upon her pallid fingers the pummel of his blade, entrusting his steel to defend herself if need be, then spanking the rear of his stallion.
He gait toward the Knight and gave a reassuring nod (despite his loathing detestation for Knights) to pacify his astonished glower, he appeared annoyed as if expecting another turn of events. Melmoth unsheathe his peripheral, silver-white blade (having confer what would of made up his primary dual-wield to the Lady), the polished steel of his Shashka was benevolent.
The imps had certainly accumulate in substantial magnitude.
The reputable and honourable stature of the Knight was one to prestige with merit.
They were primed for combat.