Balthazar strolls up.  "Um, what happened to Conn?"

"The Pecheneg scum attempted to poison the city's water supply. The repair escorts, mainly A'kos, thwarted their efforts but the poison killed Conn."

"It is but one amongst the role call of their crimes. They have murdered civilians, fed upon the flesh of men, decorated their camps with the bodies of children, betrayed the faith of their employers, and worse."


Jean sheathed Coffin Nail with a snap and reached for his helmet.

"There will be no quarter. They will all die. I swear it will be so if I must pursue them back to the fetid plains that shat them upon the Earth!"

Barmak enters the barracks in time to hear Jean's oath.  "Well spoken, Christian," he said as he sought out a place to rest, his expression grim.  "What we saw at their encampment beggars belief.  They are beneath mongrels, these Pechenegs.  They live as though they dwell in Jahannam, knowing nothing of compassion nor shame.  I would see them sent there upon our blades, that eternal judgment for their sins may begin."

Loukas had liked Conn and his passing made him sad and sharpened the anger he was already feeling towards the Perchnegs. Nodding in agreement with everything he has heard, "It has come time to square things. A debt is owed by these creatures and I look forward to collecting on it."

The midday meal is finished and the plans and traps are laid. By dusk the area around the north gate is near empty as the Rus and their allies lie in wait just a few hundred yards in the hills north of the gate. Several hundred Rus line the sides of the north road leading out of the gate just to keep them from spreading out at the last minute. Several thousand Rus troops wait lead by Sviatoslav's two oldest sons.

Dobrynya has given the honor of co-leading the attack to the party after all they have done to make this raid on Khorsun more than successful. He sits in wait with his retinue side by side with those from the Heart of Oak.

Within a half hour of formation the Pecheneg horde begin to show up at the north gate carrying untold riches and booty from whatever they could loot on the way out. The gate is not open until the 8500 plus member horde is all gathered.

Once it is open the horde pours out threatening the Rus at the gate and clanging with riches. They move painfully slow but are locked out of the city in just a few minutes and begin riding north to the ambush site.

Once in deep with Rus on all side Dobrynya has a battle horn blown signaling the attack...Ok here is your creative writing assignment for today class:) Let's go freeform for this battle or slaughter as the case may be. Let me hear the mighty deeds of your character as he or she cuts through the vile horde or casts horrific spells upon them. Be creative and have fun or be a ten word wonder but at least be graphic eh? THis is the ending for a major chapter in this saga, let's go out with a bang or a slash/thrust/rip and or tear.

With the approach of the mongrel horde toward the ambush site Dyanna tells Miroslav, "I will step to the fore under a cloak of invisibility.  You will only see me again when I spring my trap.  Hold the men until you see the mongrels' vanguard break ranks and seek to retreat back through their main army.  That shall be your signal to attack, and I will retreat into the safety of our forces."

Gaining his assent Dyanna vanishes under the guise of an invisibility spell, then makes her way forward to await the mongrels.  Upon their approach the leading edge of the ambush force hears her voice calling out arcane words.  Suddenly, the mongrels but some forty or so feet from her position, she reappears.  Her hands are held well above her head, and a shimmering dweomer leaps forward before her and descends upon the front ranks of the Pechanegs.

Of sudden, many in the front row throw down their ill gotten gains and turn to retreat through their ranks of comrades in fright.  Screaming occurs, and the army of rabble begins to slow in a disorganized manner.  Looking on with some satisfaction Dyanna returns to where the rest of the party awaits and says with a wink and a grin, "Your turn, gents..."

With a cry of..."Slava Perunu!"Miroslav charges forward on his horse and is one of the first to engage the horde directly. He quickly dismounts so he can use his two handed single edged axe to it fullest potential.

He hack indiscriminately at times hitting horse and at other time hitting Pecheneg. It matters not to him as long as his lust for mongrel blood is slaked...and slaked it is as he hews front to back, left to right in a blind rage that even his comrades can recognize as being nearly as dangerous to them as to the Pechenegs.

Bodies pile up at his feet and the ground becomes slick with the mixed blood of the horde. he splits helmeted heads as if he were cutting cabbages in the mess hall of the encampment.

Being on foot amidst a horde of expert horsemen does have it's disadvantages. Before the battle is over he is speared twice and suffers several wounds from the wicked curved sword of the steppe nomad. A short arrow sticks from his left thigh, it's point buried deep enough that he will require a skilled healer to remove it.

When there is nothing left to kill he drops down on his haunches and wipes the blood from his eyes, both his own and Pechenegs. Grabbing a nearby tunic half cut on a dead Pecheneg he cleans the blade of his axe and looks to the sky and once again calls out..."Slava Perunu! Slava!"

Barmak awaits the sign to engage their vile foe, holding his finely-smithed falchion tight in his grip and closing his eyes to say a silent prayer.  Though his allies be pagans and infidels, he prays that Allah will grant them victory so that the naked evil of the Pechenegs may be smited from the face of the earth.

Then Dyanna magically appears and sends the Pechenegs in the front ranks scurrying from the shimmer of her sorceries.  Miroslav's battle cry rouses Barmak and he, likewise, cries out, "Allahu akbar!"  His voice is only one amid the howl of the battle-ready Rus, but together they ring in his ears louder than the roars of a pride of lions.  He jabs his heels into his steed, riding for the enemy ranks head-on, his falchion flashing as he whirls it overhead, teeth bared and dark hair blowing in the wind.

Then they clash.  He feels the shudder of the blade as it cuts through flesh and tendon and bone, the hot spray of brackish blood up his arm and against the side of his face.  Terror mingles with rage, and adrenaline courses through him as he hacks again and again at the Pecheneg warriors.  Fearing he will be unhorsed by the hordes and dragged to the ground for a quick and brutal end, he leaps from his horse's back, seeming to hang in mid-air over the spears for a moment before time catches up with him.  He brings his blade down in a glittering arc and cleaving deep into the shoulder of a Pecheneg warrior.  He is amidst the fray.

Like a whirling dervish, he slices and dodges between the mercenaries, moving from one opponent to the next.  He cleaves a warrior, slicing him open from belly to throat, and using his momentum spins while drawing his dagger, Eagle's Talon, to drive it into the exposed flesh of another Pecheneg's neck.  He weaves between his opponents, rolling between their legs as they hack at the air where he once stood and cutting their tendons.  When faced with a giant of the Pechenegs, a massive, heavily-armored brute with a two-handed axe, the Persian charges him.  He leaps up to dodge the warrior's axe as it cuts the air, stepping up his chest and using his weight and speed to bowl him over onto the ground with a crunch.  As the other Pechenegs howl about him, he pounces upon their champion's neck, stabbing his dagger underneath his chin.

But his fortune does not spare him from injury.  Gradually the small cuts and scrapes and bruises accumulate, and his enemies begin to bleed him more egregiously as his energy wears away.  Soon he is bleeding freely from his arms and his forehead, his graceful cuts and spins being slowed to ruthless hacking and stabbing, punching and shoving, howling and groaning.  When adrenaline fades, he relies upon his rage to sustain him.  When that passes, it is only desperation and a will to survive that avail his flagging strength.  As he looks at his own blood running in rivulets down his forearms and slicking his grip on his blades, he realizes that his death is close at hand.

So be it.  It is a good death.

And then, groggily surveying the charnel that surrounds him, he dimly realizes that the shades who surround him are his allies.  The Pechenegs lay dead or dying beneath their heels, and their cries of victory stun him for a moment.  Finally, he drops to his knees, gasping for air as he looks heavenward, desiring to thank Fate for sparing him but unable to do more than breathe.

Somehow, it is enough.

A'kos is charged with a killing energy that even Storm's Wind can feel.  His grim mien is frightful as he grasps two spears, one in each hand.  As Miroslav and Barmak charge, he circles, waiting for those among the Pechanegs who withstood the sorceress's assault to turn and flank the two warriors.  Their backs turned, they fail to see the Falcon as he kicks his horse forward.

The foemen's ranks so tightly pushed together, two great thrusts of his spears impales four of the mongrels, then his sword swings free.  Howling his bloodlust, he feels little beyond the jubilation of combat as his sword is a swirling brand of death.  Too late do the mongrels turn to form a defense, their efforts not swift enough as he pushes forward.  Overhead blows behead those looking up in shock and awe, and deep thrusts are reversed quickly to defend his flanks.

He also takes his wounds, though his newfound armor protects him to a greater degree, perhaps, than the others.  Still, blood flows from wounds on his legs and arms.  Of graver concern is the well-being of his horse, though - the cowards, unable to pull him down, aim their blows instead at the flanks of Storm.

Incensed, he pulls Leo free and whispers the command - of sudden the lion appears and the scene around him devolves into chaos.  Like a drifting sea the mongrel force pulls away from him...toward the next of his companions who begins their attack...

The blood of many dripping from him, his visage is a terrible sight to behold.  Halting, he calls Leo to his side and looks to see where he might be needed next.

Looks like the post I made earlier today on the train didn't, in fact, "take".  Not the first time.  Oh well.

Balthazar watches everybody else kick butt and lets his summoned minions do all the work for him while he enjoys some ale in a lawnchair.  Invisibly, of course.

"Balthazar, are you up here?"

The disembodied voice of Dyanna calls from the top of a small height where the battle can be seen clearly.  Knowing the Mage, she suspected he would be somewhere nearby, watching.  Upon turning things over to the boys she had cast her second invisibility spell and made her way in search of the mage's company and to watch the remainder of the battle.

Listening, she turned to watch as A'kos charged headlong into the mongrels' unsuspecting flank.

In addition to killing his friend, the Pechenegs had committed, to Loukas's mind, profound crimes. That is, their rape, murder, and pillage endangered the civilization necessary for Trade in Khorson. It is not simply a matter of a merchant's son feeling some sort of homely connection to things here or a reborn sense of Rusness, but since swearing the oath to Volos -- the oath of Zmija's order -- he felt a much deeper connection to such matters than he had ever felt before. (As yet he has not considered whether his father or brothers would appreciate a sensitivity to things mercantile felt by this youngest son after he'd spent a lifetime avoiding it, but if he did not survive this battle such considerations are irrelevant anyway, no?) With this in mind he is more focused than he has been since learning of his Uncle's murder.

Waiting with the party, the varied fellowship he has come to think of as friends through the corruption, bloodshed, and tumult they've experienced together, Loukas impatiently awaited for their trap to be sprung. Once it was, he moves quickly, yet rather differently than many of his comrades. After all, he knows well how to ride a horse, but he is no cavalry man. Nevertheless, with the training he's received from Zmija he is not only faster on his feet than other men, but he's more dangerous: it's not simply a matter of knowing how to swing the weapon any more, but he knows where to stick it into the body to ensure even greater damage. Additionally, he is better able to avoid the attacks coming at him. In other words he is now an even more deadly combatant (armed or otherwise) and he looks forward to making use of this new learning...

Accordingly, he follows Miroslav into the battle, but permits others to hit the enemy first on horseback. Rather than ride in he follows on foot and moving much faster than any other footman, besides Zmija, he is quickly amidst the retreating enemy. As soon as he is amongst the Half-Orcs he goes to work, putting his Uncle's and his new mentor's teachings to the best use using stealth to compliment the speed and withering certainty of his attacks. Before long he has taken wounds, but those he gives are precise and to the ultimate point. Throughout it all Loukas is driven not to stop until whatever wounds he receives stop him.

In the meanwhile, the Pecheneg barbarians quickly learn why his blade is called Akribis Alitheia, for with its sharp he delivers the most profound truth.
This message was last edited by the player at 14:33, Sat 12 June 2010.

On the face of the Earth there exists no military power greater than the mounted charge of the Knights of West Frankland. Even with only one of those worthies here present that fact was proven as Jean D'Arzillieres and Donnerhuf drove into the Pecheneg mongrels like a falling thunderbolt.

The lance strike drove through a horse and the filthy orc mounted on it as the great horse crushed two unhorsed savages into the grave. With a sharp metallic ring Cercuil Clou flashed into the air and then slashed down splitting helms and heads alike.

Jean offered up no battle cry. His jaw was set, eyes full of ice, heart full of death. He had never encountered a people more evil than these and, God forgive him, he would show no mercy.

He hewed about himself with inhuman strength, slaying mounts as well as men, and hurtled from one end of the battlefield to the other. Wounded many times he paid no heed but to pause to utterly crush those who dealt them.

To the end he held to his oath, ruthlessly pursuing any pecheneg who attempted to flee. At long last he rode down the last of the mongrel horsemen and pinned him to the ground with a captured spear.

Finally he sat his horse in the center of the field, covered in gore, and surveyed the brutal justice which had been meted out this day.

Balthazar has his unseen servant pull up a second lawn chair for her and get her a martini.

While others charged Radvila hung back with his crossbow. This was a new weapon for him but one that he had taken to with a passion. He did his best to target those Pechenegs who seemed to offer the greatest threat to his fellows at arms in the midst of battle, be they attacking from the blind side or using ranged weapons themselves.

After a while his bolts ran out and he then charged headlong into the fray wielding his war hammer high over head calling tot he Gods of his people all along.

Even though the slaughter was dying down he took out not a few of the Pechenegs and finished off a few of the wounded. Gore and pink matter dripped from the head of his hammer as he stood, chest heaving in the middle of the slaughter field.

When the battle is done, Balthazar has his unseen servant bring all the other characters a towel, clean clothes to wear, and a refreshing beverage.

A disembodied martini lifts into the air, then a satisfied smack of the lips is interrupted by a small hiccough.

"Dry...just the way I like it," murmurs Dyanna in thanks, then her attention is drawn to the destruction upon the field of battle.

"The boys are enjoying themselves, it seems," she says after awhile, Sir Jean in particular catching her attention.  "Let us hope they contract no infection from the few minor cuts and bruises they seem to be sustaining."

She pauses again, then observes, "Truly...a barberous lot, our friends."

Reappearing as the battle winds down she finishes her martini and burbs daintily in appreciation.

"Thank you, Sir Mage!"

"To that end, I am attemping to master the ability to cure diseases. It will solve so many ... problems, if you know what I mean."



"It's just their outlet for hedonism.  I'm still trying to discover what yours is."



"You're welcome.  So, where to next, anyway?"

"I dunno," she replies, a bit lightheaded from the strong concoction.  "I s'pose it depends on what the rest of the gang wish to do...and, of course, Dobrynya's suggestions."

In reply to Balthazar the Hedonite (msg #21):

When the battle was over Loukas, like everyone on the field, was covered in gore. His body ached as not only had he garnered several minor wounds of his own through the clash, he had used it in ways that were new to him, but his mind soared. He exulted in the punishment he had meted out and the grace with which he had managed to dance through the bloody mess. Bowing his head he thanks Volos for the gifts the God had offered him, without which he would never had been able to punish these vile barbarians for the myriad cruelties and crimes they had committed quite as effectively.

When he lifted his head Balthazar's Unseen Servant hovered next to him with a goblet and a towel. It took him a moment or two to realize that it was a gift from his friend rather than from Volos himself and when he did he laughed, "Gods, bless you, Magus!"

Loukas laughed deep and hard until tears ran down his face and as he did so the teary laughter became a profound cry. A good, honest, soul purging weep. After a few moments he managed to pull himself together. It has been a long, long time -- indeed, since he boarded the ship in Byzantium -- since he has felt this... Free. Taking a deep Rus guzzle he is surprised to find Rus wine, rather than Greek wine, in it. Symbolic of much and well refreshing in addition. Sheathing his sword he takes the towel with a nod of thanks to the servant and wipes his face.

Taking a deep breath he joins Balthazar and Dyanna. The look on his face is joyous and sincere, and before the wizard knows what has happened Loukas quickly kisses him on the mouth, "I do not know how to repay your grace, Balthazar, but I give this to you freely with my thanks."
This message was last edited by the player at 15:42, Sat 12 June 2010.

Wow, didn't see that one coming, but Balthazar is invisible so that didn't quite happen as you imagined it.  Instead, Balthazar deadpans as Loukas tries to kiss where he thinks Balthazar's face is, "Um Loukas, that's not my mouth."

Dyanna looks on wide-eyed...and takes a quick step back.

"Shall I leave the two of you alone?" she smirks, then she too shares Loukas' laughter, pleased that he has escaped the scrum alive and fairly healthy.

"You'll need to see the healers, Loukas, to ensure infection does not set in," she says after the laughter dies.  "All of you should do so, my friends."

Taking his lips from Balthazar's ear Loukas winks, "You are quite right, Dyanna, and you are also quite welcome to join us."

Looking around, "Before we decide next moves I hope we have time to celebrate and heal."

"And toast the memory of Conn, and others who have fallen," says A'kos, walking Storm's Wind up to the top of the rise.  "Vengeance was ours this day."

He nods to the witch, then looks about.

"I have not seen Jaleh, this day."

He frowns and looks about, but fails to see her.

As the sun sinks below the horizon the last of the Pechenegs are put to the sword. At most two or three managed to break through the Rus lines an escape.

Sviatoslav and his force push up from the harbor picking up and executing any Pecheneg who thought it a good idea to stay behind. The actual citizens of Khorsun while not happy at being invaded help flush out the remaining Pechenegs in the city throughout the night.

Jaleh was not at the Pecheneg massacre. Since A'kos saw her last, she has not been seen by anyone.

Rus troops pour through the North gate returning vast quantities of loot into the city from the horde. Dobrynya has put together a team of locals to help try and get at least some of the loot returned. The remainder of the troops scour the city for pockets of resistance and left over Pechenegs...they find very little of either.

Sviatoslav sets himself up in the palace after disposing of the government put in place by the Romans.

All are invited to the celebration to commemorate the rebirth of Khorsun under not the Rus flag or the Byzantine but it's own flag.

Finish up here as needed. We will go to a new thread called end of chapter 1.