A Wandering Bard

http://www.empirewar.org/forums/m/5312442/viewthread/24868521-shadow-blackfyre

Your Rp could inspire my members to a greater height than my competitors. Join me, sir.

Those days when you want to line up every disrespectful idiot on EW and whack them over the head with a giant rubber mallet one at a time.

I tell yah, that worst pick up lines thread is out of control.....

I love your random RP related quotes.

We should talk.

Your....your alive XD!

My MC username sill be changing soon. I'll be posting it here when I do change it, but if lucolas01 blinks out of assistance you'll all know why.

The last quote from Luco shall remain here. Remember who I was, but look to what I'm hoping to be.

"Never fear Truth. The lies of the enemy bind a man while telling him he is free. Dwell in the Truth, and ye surly shall know freedom."

He awoke, back on the cold wood just as dawn was breaking. The pain of his wounds returned, but the blood no longer flowed. He sat up, not sure what to do. He was wanted dead, that much was sure. If he ran, he had no place to go for his home was many weeks travel away. If he stayed or turned himself in he would be killed for certain. Twas then this eyes fell on an old box in the far corner of the room. He walked over, and opened the chest to find an old map and some oddly fresh food. He took what he could carry, and when night fell began to follow the map to a town that knew him not. It was there he started anew. A man broken, beaten, and without a farthing in his pocket. He had nothing but a streak of cowardice a wide as the English channel, and a hunger to find out who 'The Master' that man spoke of was.

-Part 6 of the Lost, Part 1 of the Searching--

A pale beam of sunlight pierced into the room, the coward sat up only to find he was no longer in the house he hid in. His wounds remained, but no longer seemed to hurt. He looked around, the room he was in seemed plain but not bland. He sat on a bed, across the room was a window near a table and two chairs. In one of the chairs sat a man, clothed in simple gray. The coward moved over and took the seat opposite him. Hard as he tried he could not seem to make out the mans face, nor anything else about him. It was if he saw but could not understand what was before him. He talked with the stranger a good long while, but in the end all he remembered was the mans final words. "Your time is not yet come. The Master has seen fit to give you another chance."

The man left the room, and as the coward looked out the window all he saw a long field, the sky a misty gray as if after a rain, beyond the field a forest, and beyond that mountains. The sun was just setting, and he returned to the bed to rest.

--Part 5--

After he recovered his strength the coward slipped out of his hiding spot. He had no notion of caution any more so he bolted, only to be spotted by guards. The hunt began anew, and the pray was weary. Darting down alley ways and pushing through the town square. Soon he not only had the guards but an angry mob after him. At last he reached a house with an open door. He darted inside and bolted it shut, throwing bits of furniture against to door, windows and breaking down the stair case behind himself. The sound of axes and swords hacking at the wood rang in his ears as he slumped against the wall in the furthest corner. Men broke in, shouts rang out as they trashed the house searching for him. He wanted to run, to escape and make it home, but he had no strength left. Tales of men finding some inner courage or power flooded to his mind. He gave a weak laugh, drowned out by the rage of those bellow. How hollow they looked now that he was in their position. He realized that the body is merely a vessel, doomed to die and bound to the earth. With the last of his strength he gave one final prayer, then looked up as a club came crashing down on him. He fell to the side, no power left to fight. Guards pushed through the mob as he was beaten, stopping the barbaric assault of the peasants. The mob was sent away, and seeing his limp and bleeding form, the guards too left him for dead. His breath came slow and painful, blood staining the wood floor as he gave himself up for lost and the world went black.

--Part 4--

The coward awoke as the sun set bellow the western mountains. With a groan he got up and looked around. His head was caked with dry blood, and he had several untreated wounds. It seemed most were cleaned, but none properly taken care of. His captors clearly wanted him to live to his execution, but not comfortably. He scanned the small cell he was in, only a bucket of water and a filthy bedroll in the dank room. He had no wish to die in the morning so he set straight to finding a way to escape. After a few hours at the least he finally had somewhat of a plan. He emptied the bucket and smashed off the handle, praying the guards would not come. With this crude bit of iron he set about removing the hinges from the door, and just as the moon reached it's height had it free. He slipped out, no master of stealth was he but he managed to find paths where the guards did not patrol down the halls. All was going well until he bumped into a servant, who quickly sounded the alarm. He ran, and ran. Guards chased, spears bounced off the walls. Within minutes he found himself cornered in a room, about 10 feet above the moat. Seeing no other way out and with his foes close behind he let himself fall out the window. The water turned red as his blood mingled with it. He dragged himself out and crawled into a hollow under some bushes to recover his strength, and hide from the men now sweeping the city for him.

--Part 3--

As dawn broke over the ruined city our cowardly friend was awoken by a spear but being jabbed into his side. As his mind fully engaged he scrambled backward toward the corner, looking up at three armed guards. As if waiting for him to move they lowered their spears and advanced on him. "Please." He croaked. "Mercy." The guards looked at each other for a moment, then grabbed him and dragged him toward what was left of the keep. Peasents yelled and threw stones at him as they passed by, and he suffered many a strike from the guards. After what seemed like hours they arrived at the keep. On a shattered throne sat the lord of the town, head bandaged and sword on his lap. "And what wretched creature did you bring this time?". The lord looked up, mixed exhaustion and rage in his eyes. "A northerner. One of the enemy men by the looks of him.". The lord rose, lifting his sword. "Tell me wretch. How many of my men died by your hand? Two. Three. Ten?". With what little strength he could muster he replied "None, sir.". The next thing he felt was a metal gauntlet cracking across his already bloodied face. "I ask again. How many?". "None.". Another strike from a gauntlet sent him sprawling on the floor. With a stiff groan he tried to stand, only to be struck down by one of the guards. "M...mercy." was all he managed to say before he slumped into a heap. He dimly heard the lord giving orders for him to be publicly executed at dawn before he again passed out.

--Part 2--

The flames of battle died down, bodies littered the streets as the few weary and wounded defenders worked to clear the rubble and find the survivors. The stench of death and smoke filled the air as the last rays of the sun passed bellow the horizon. As the city slept, their besiegers destroyed, a single lone figure rose from among the corpses. No great warrior was he, no prince nor lord. He was merely a simple foot soldier, unharmed and scared. The sigil on his chest showed he was from the armies of those who attacked the city. Survived he had, not by strength of arms or cunning, but on cowardice. When his companions began to fall he hid among the bodies and prayed not to be found. Now that the battle was over this single survivor shed his armor, dropped his sword and slowly walked towards the nearest house. Though he knocked at many a door, and many eyes looked out at him not a man would answer his cries for help. He could hide his armor, but not his face. The look of a man from the north was all to plain about him, his shock of hair matted with blood proving he was in the battle.

As the night wore on he finally found a ruined building to rest in. Deep down he felt nothing but pain. Pain for the loss of his friends. Pain for his own cowardice in not helping in the fight. Though the pain that surprised him most was the grief he felt for his enemies who fell. What was left of the night was spent passed out from exhaustion, knowing that dawn would likely mean capture and execution.

--Part 1--

Game moderator, event team, AND player of the month. You'll be running the damn place soon. Maybe I should try RoK again.

Player of the month, I should've known.

way to go I havent even joined yet ;D

Congratulations, Lucas! Player of the Week, woo!

Gonna be gone from friday night to monday afternoon. Going off to Pitch and Praise.

He is Risen!

Is Blackfyre never coming back?