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The Beginning

By: Ragmar

"The Gaiscíoch hold honor, respect, integrity, and fellowship, over hierarchy and dictatorship." -Foglahda

Snow fell lazily from the sky, coming to rest on the things below it. The ground of the frozen, the battlements of the keep, the heads of the defenders as they went about their tasks. The sky was blanketed with clouds, and the wind blew gently. It was bitter cold, and the sentries had wrapped themselves in thick woolen cloaks, as they stood by braziers burning on the walltops. The fires that were crackling merrily within them were the only things that gave a semblance of cheer to the otherwise dismal scene.

The stones of the keep were dark and oppressive. They rose from the ground, a monolith in the rolling hills that spread all around it. On the distant horizon, mountains were barely visible, rising up to go through the underbelly of the clouds. The sky was darkening as the sun set.

Out in the hills, a lone figure stood on top of a high one, a fair distance from the keep. In front of him loomed a huge pile of dried brush. He looked behind him at the vast force amassed, awaiting his instructions. He lowered the faceplate of his helmet, and snapped his fingers. A soldier hurried up the hill, carrying a torch,and handed it to him. He dropped the torch on the pile and brush and it burst into flames.

A huge roar went up from the army behind him, and siege engines that had been hiding lower on the hill were hauled up by beasts of burden. Stones were lobbed from trebuchets, and they crashed into the walls. A brazier was knocked from the wall by a stone, catching the leg of one of the sentries, and it pulled him off the ramparts. His scream alerted the other sentries, who came running over to that side of the wall.

They froze at the sight of the vast army, with their weapons of destruction being hauled into place. They could see several trebuchets already in postition, with catapults and ballistas being positioned in closer range. One of the sentries recovered enough to run down the steps nearby, screaming as he ran.

"We're under attack, we're under attack!"

The sound of many soldiers could be heard within the keep, all trying to get prepared for combat as fast as possible.

----------------------------------------------------

Ragmar Drirken woke to the frantic sounds outside of his room. He sat up, trying to figure out what was going on, when the door was thrown open. He looked up to see the face of his sergeant.

"Drirken!" He shouted. "We're under attack! Get out to those walls and help!"

Ragmar jumped out of the bed he was in, hurrying to get dressed in his leather armor. As fast as he could, he belted on his two daggers, and slung his quiver over his shoulder. He picked up the shortbow that was on a desk, and sprinted down the hall. As he rounded a corner, he saw wounded men being carried into the infirmary.

As quickly as he could, he burst out of the main keep, and began to run to his position on the walltop. He could hear the screams of the wounded, and the shouts of the commanders. The air was filled with smoke from the brazier that had fallen off the walltop, and he could hear the relentless pounding of the stones that were crashing into the walls. As he was running, he heard: "Stop that ram! Focus fire on the ram!"

Ragmar put on the breaks, and hurried to the main gate, taking the steps up two at a time. He risked a glance over the battlements and saw the massive horde gathered outside of the keep. He ducked as arrows whizzed by his head. Ragmar crawled over to the pot of oil that was over the gate and realized the fire underneath it hadn't been lit.

Hissing in frustration, he attempted to get the fire lit. "I need some help over here!" he shouted. He glanced over the battlements again, this time trying to find the ram. There! He still had some time to get the heat going. However, the adrenaline coursing through his system made trying to light the fire extremely difficult.

"Look! To the west!" he heard someone shout. He looked over the wall again, to see another large army, cresting a hill. He groaned, and went back to working on the fire. "It's the Gaiscioch!" Artrath shook his head. Wive's tales. The Gaiscioch didn't exist any more.

He got the fire to light, and began shooting arrows down over the battlements. The ram was almost to the gate. A hundred more feet, and the enemy would be knocking on his door. He heard a cheer rise from the other defenders, and he let his gaze shift for just a second to see what was happening. The last thing he saw was the new arrivals crashing into the horde assaulting the keep, and then an arrow took him in the shoulder, causing him to stumble and fall off the walltop.

(still in progress)