/builders/ - Hero and Nation Builders!

>>34091

Day 7 THE LAST STAND

—

Bran stands on ramparts watching the great horde swarm at the walls like thousands of ants. Hordes of arrows, magic and rocks fly from above killing the few defenders who still stood. The Gate crumpled like sand as a great black shape pushed it's ethereal body through, a thousand darkling warrior following in it's wake. Some defenders died valiantly taking down at least ten times their number while others sold their lives cheaply hoping to quickly escape into the comfort of death. In the end only six men remained standing, a peasant of humble birth but of great courage, a soul clinging to life to halt the advance of darkness, a smith given purpose by the gods to sacrifice everything he held for a glimmer of hope, a knight given new purpose by the holy fire in his hands and lastly the commander who hand held to the bitter end the key of the Martyr's tomb clutched close to his chest.

The great shadowy spectral formed into a form more comprehensible by the mere mortals, the Wild King had come though not in the flesh. The pure perversion of his presence caused the weak of heart to faint, if only there were any of those left. A guttural voice screeches into the few defenders heads.

[Give me the corpse]

One last roll, what will you do, this is your final stand.

Rolled 20 (1d100)

>>34549

Name: Bran the Bard

Age: 28

Speciality: Commander

Rank: [Knight-Steward]

Background: The Order, once a mighty vestige of the best the Kingdom had to offer, its best and brightest men giving up their lives in the noble goal of the protection of the Entire realm against those who seek its ruin, and against the pure evil of the Wild king and his flock of demons. Now, its more of a ramshackle group of bastards, criminals and whoresons then anything else. Even Bran himself was a bastard, albeit a son of a Noble Lord; but he joined more for some romanticized version of what the order used to be, and as a personal call of honor, then rather escaping a life he lived before or even looking for a place to sleep. In time, the previous commander made him his steward, seeing in the boy the fire and courage necessary to make the decisions that might kill many people, but save the realm as a whole. And so it was he spent 3 winters training under Knight-Steward Harkwood, before he was tragically cut down by some raiders from the Stygian Reaches on a routine patrol. When the time came to select a new leader of the order, Bran was the obvious choice, and mostly because the men couldn't be assed. So know this junior Knight-Steward looks out from the walls of his venerable - if crumbling - keep, and the fires raging in the distance tell him and all of his men one thing. Darkness is coming for them all. Bran stands fast though, and steels in his men's hearts to not go gentle into that cold night, to rage, rage, against the dying of the light.

Grit: 0 [See section]

Armaments: Fine Plate Armor, Fine Dagger, Fine Longword, Horn of the Hero [1 use blow at own risk], Key to the Tomb of the Hero, Fine Kite Shield

Bonus: [Leader of Men] +10 to all command rolls

1. No weapon to damage the ghost, no horn to blow, this was a case of a mortal man fighting what accounted for a god on earth. Bran would offer a prayer to the god's for grace and guidance, before he would try to occupy the wild king's attention so that his comrades with magical weapons could put the hurt on the wild king.

Rolled 62 (1d100)

Name: Chief "Man Raider"

Age: 37

Speciality: Barbarian

Rank: [Visitor]

Background:

Chief "Man Raider" is the leader of the Swamplings

The Swamplings are savage natives, the original inhabitants of the southern swamps. Cruel, primitive, and aboriginal they grew and multiplied in the swamplands after the defeat of the Wild King. Resorting to a primitive way of life they raided, ransacked, and even engaged in cannibalism to survive. After the fall of the Wild King, the Order of Knights was then tasked to keep these savages south of the border. Bereft of the great iron mines, technology of the north they resorted to weapons and armor of bone, wood, and rock.

The swamp is larger than any man may ever know, and across it the tribes multiplied and grew to untold numbers. Hundreds of thousands too busy trying to eke a living in the unforgiving swamp and killing each other to make so much as a threat.

Then the shamans began to cry in anguish, proclaiming the return of the Wild King. And when the forces of darkness arose, the Wild King began to slaughter any of the Swamplings in his path.

Chief "Man Raider" and his tribe chose to fight. But not to fight and die in the swamps like so many other tribes.

He was willing to bury the ancient grudge against the order. And with the help of Bran the Bard took 200 of his surviving tribe over the border and into the castle. Not just warriors but men, women, even children all armed with spears and knives of bone and wood. Not to take the ancient castle as they have done before, but to fight for their very lives.

Grit: 3 [See section]

-Bonus: [See Grit]

-Negative: [See Grit]

+50 Bone Armor +200 +50 Bone Clubs, +[400 Arrows]

Troops: +[40 Darksteel Warriors] 120 Misc Swamplings, +[??? Sword]

+[Weapons Pile]

—

1. Chief Man raider fires off his last arrow, the last arrow of the last swampling of the last men standing. He lifts up his spear in one hand, and the strange sword in the other.

He thinks about what has happened. He lead his tribe in the hopes of finding a means to survive. When it was clear that wouldn't happen, then he wanted to lead them to take as many down with them as possible. He prayed each had taken thrice than he was. They were all waiting for him in the feasting halls of warriors.

He turns to the men around him, some already ahead and charging. To those still by his side, he simply says this.

"My ancestors are smiling on me Imperial, can you say the same?"

And he goes forth to battle, to slay the nearest thing he can and then the nearest thing after that until he himself was slain.

Maybe he'd take one more.

Maybe he'd take ten.

Or maybe he'd trip on a stone to land face down and be slaughtered.

It didn't matter. His tribe was waiting for him. He'd try to make them wait a little longer.

Rolled 35 (1d100)

1. Armian fondles the peasant before charging at the wild king

Rolled 68 (1d100)

>>34549

Name: Surtin Veek Tori

Age: Ancient

Speciality: Lord Enchanter

Armaments: Fine Longbow, 12 Iron Arrows, Quiver, Lightning enchanted Fine Bastard sword, Splint Armor, Dagger, Poor Shield, Dire Wolf Companion

Rank: [Visitor]

Background: It was the age of knowledge without wisdom and of the flower without the frame. After the beginning of the world In the time of flowering for fey knowledge and power I had created what I would come to understand much later was the antithesis of the spell the Wild King had created. The spell I made was mastery without power and I gave it the shape of a ring that I could carry magic with me. Magic was the height of existence, the center of life with no aspect of the world its equal. When the Wild King took power I could see he did not carry magic without precedent he BECAME magic he BECAME power and with great courage and great foolishness I cast aside my world for this surely ultimate and unrivaled being. Chief among his followers was I by the virtue of dignity as a lord and maintaining my sanity, with my ring; I pulled myself my tools and my perception of the world into the ring without altering my physical presence in the world. If magic sought to exert its will or the will of its master upon me it would find me and mine always out of reach and in the failure of its purpose the magic is free of malignancy and by the ring is cleansed.

Overtime by heinous action and with the defeat of the Wild King by the hero I came to understand that I had in the past seen magic as worthy of usurping life and that this was inherently wrong, magic without bounds was unnatural it was all power and no mastery. He had seemingly having achieved a magic being beyond the coil of life but was unable to free others because he had never unchained himself. After his defeat I walked the world in search of fey that could be saved and places that could be purified as the last of the Seelie on a path of redemption. With the return of the Wild King the Kingdom and the world in danger I arrive at Castle Heliger to find redemption or die trying.

Grit: 0

Bonus:[Last of the Seelie] You are imbued with the primal forces of magic and can cast spells

[The Ring] You carry “The Ring” an artifact of power which can cleanse items corrupted by the Wild King’s powers.} - In the Gatehouse

[Mastery in Virtue] +5 to all rolls

Negative: [Last of the Seelie] You are targeted by all members of the Wild King’s army as whoever kills the traitor is sure to get a great boon.

[Or Die Trying] You have a death wish when entering combat roll 1d6, on a 1 you cannot retreat

"I have the Power." It was always going to end like this and now this story can come to a close. Strike the Wild King from this world.

>>34549

The first to die is the noble commander, a black hand pushing through his chest corrupting his flesh into black rot. The Wild King cackles with glee as the Key burns in his fingers tips. His gloating is cut short as the Chieftain launches forward cutting off the spectral's hand before grabbing the key and throwing it towards the smith as a black spike pierces his chest draining his life energy. Screaming with fury the Smith lashes out as the Wild King pounces on him pulverizing him as it scrambles for the key. A crackle of lightening screams out from the lost soul as the peasant and Knight leap at the Wild King, the fiery hammer smashing into it's leg as the holy sliver spear is rammed into the creatures face.

3 Remain, Marius has the Key

>>34568

Rushing forward the Peasant rams the holy silver spear through the gut of the creature pinning it in place as the Knight moves forward smashing the flaming hammer into the spectre's head. It struggles on the ground leaking great streams of pure mana obliterating any in the area long with the Lost Soul.

2 Remain, Marius has the Key

>>34574

The Knight leaps forward hammer in hand to finish the eldritch spirit, however it catches the hammer in one hand crushing the holy hammer into dust before eviscerating the wielder.

A lone peasant stand before the Wild King and victory. the Key is on the ground.

>>34580

>>34582

Rolled 81, 17, 23, 3, 20 = 144 (5d100)

>>34580

The Peasent charges forward, summong the last of his grit and the tiny speck of hope left in his heart ramming the spear deep into the Heart of all Evil. His very soul screams as torrents of pure evil blast into him and a hellish screech bursts his eardrums. Blood leaks from his nose as the pressure grows every second, his whole body screams for him to stop. Can he finish it?

>>34585

By the Gods, the souls of the fallen are at your side, every single one lending you their power and hope!

ALL SLAIN PLAYERS ROLL 1d100!

Rolled 67 (1d100)

>>34586

The Commander stabs at the heart of darkness from the ethereal realm, the spirit of the hero guiding his sword ever onward.

Rolled 2 (1d100)

>>34586

Marius' wrathful specter, still torn from waist to throat, screams out from the void to pour his willpower and strength into the lowblooded hero.

Rolled 82 (1d100)

The Tribal Chief awakes, now much less like he was in life and more as he was in spirit. Decked in the embroidery of the tribe, he is confused at first. This was the battlefield of the afterlife, but his tribe was not with him.

Instead, what grabbed his attention was the beating thing before him. Somehow, he knew it was the ghostly heart of the Wild King. In life, he could not eat a ghost.

But here?

"It is flesh. . .I SHALL EAT IT!"

His first battle in the afterlife and his first warriors feast lay before him, he leaped forward to hack off a bite.

>>34584

A New Dawn

—–

Eddard could feel them all with him, each doing their part to help him drive the spear deeper and deeper into the darkness, each screaming prayers and warcrys, channeling every thing they had to help him win. Finally the pressure gave and his sight would collapse into a darkness, a warm feeling spreading across his body.

He would awaken in the ruins of the Keep, or what he could only assume was the ruins of it. the entire mountaintop was levelled in the battle pieces of rubble and corpses littering the ground. In the distance he could see the dark horde fleeing back east, for without a head what could a snake do. The warmth of the rising sun washed across his face as he threw the spear, now crackling with dark energy, across his shoulder cracking a smile like he had not done in a long time. He never thought we would have been the one to survive this whole mess…..

In the Hall of Heroes, where dwelt the blessed and couragous under the benevolence of the gods, the first heathen stepped foot in.

Not a knight, or a crusader, but a savage swampling dripping in blood and mud. He went to his place in the grand hall, in his chair, and stood before it.

He raised his spear high, and brought it down impaling it upon the chair. There it sits to this day, a reminder of the first heathen to have stepped in the halls, and that he was here.

—

In a different place among the realm of spirits, a great multitude of bloody warriors stood below grand pyramids in an otherworldly jungle, all eyes drawn to the sacrificial temple. There on the steps of the crimson stained pyramid stood the warriors of the Man-Raider tribe, above all others, the last swamplings in life and so the first swamplings in death. They had survived the longest, and fought and killed more than the others.

And atop the pyramid a Chieftan stood, as the multitude shouted with a mighty roar that shook the ground. In his left hand, a strange blade still dripping crimson shimmered in an ethereal sun, the blade that had bitten into the hand and heart of evil. In his right hand, the still beating King's flesh pouring forth red, and a bite taken out of it. Man Raider stood, his jaws and chest dripping with blood.

The swamplings now dwelt in the spirit world, all their flesh had been devoured and free'd of the mortal coil. Now there would be eternal battles for the warriors, endless demons to kill and feast upon. They would be lead by a Chieftan who had fought and tasted of the heart of evil.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z9A3aH2toqs

Marius strode into the Hall, a placid look on his face. Here, there were no fits of darkness. There was no hollowness in the world. There was only victory, there was only satisfaction.

He passed by his compatriots, passed by his forefathers. He simply went to the highest chair, where there sat the Last Hero, and he fell to his knees before him, a thin red scar showing under the collar of his white shirt. He spread his arms–

Rather. He spread his -arm-, for now, he had only one. And he asked of the Last Hero:

"I am scarcely worthy to dine with you, much less to speak. But I ask of you… where has my arm gone?"

—

In the world of the living, the pale light of the new sun washed over the corpses of the noble souls of the Order.

It washed over Marius' corpse, too, and those dead blue eyes, glinting with darkness and intelligence, followed it on its advance through the sky, as it marched its own purposeful path down the mountain.

>>34597

Bran walked into the hall of heroes, not expecting cheers or thanks, or anything of the sort. He was a commander, and though he fought with his men, and it was by his orders and dogged determination not to give an inch to the Wild King that the day was won, he expected no thank you. Rather the taste of victory lie in the mouths of his noble and loyal soldiers; those brave men

Marius, the Hammerer, who's divine mallet smashed the Wild King's head like a grape.

Man Raider, a savage whom Bran had come to regard as a friend, and a equal. He was glad to see the man here in the hall of heroes, for he bleed as much as any of them for the good fight.

Surtin the Fae-Lord, who gave his very own mortal body and immortal soul to stop the Wild King

And last but most certainly not least was Young Armian, the champion of the Order.

Bran looked upon his men, nay, his brothers, and for the first time since the dark winds of war blew over Castle Heilger, he felt at peace. They had done it, they had won for now, and maybe even forever.

So when he walked into the Gilded Hall of heroes, Bran did not stride in as a victor, nor did he timidly enter the hall as a coward.

Bran did what he wanted to do since that damned siege started, and what he dreamt of as the Wild King turned his flesh to rot. He sat down at the table where a mighty pig was being roasted, and fresh ale lay in mugs made from the horns of Unicorns (Bran chuckled upon seeing this, for it seems the gods do have some sense of humor after all) and he took a strip of pork and a keg of ale and he drank and ate until he finally could do so no more.

And with a solemn nod to the Last Hero, he passed out. Not sleeping for 7 days and then dying horrifically really takes the life out of you.

>>34586

I know this is late, but do I count as slain if I dropped the game at the last minute due to technical constraints? :3c