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Post by oznerol on Aug 11, 2020 11:59:18 GMT -5
”The dead, Umber. They rose, and are most likely following us.” Osgrey rubbed his hands together. It was beginning to dawn on him that leaving the safety of the Wall was perhaps a mistake, but Snow was right in that any man left alive Beyond the Wall would soon be an extra soldier for the Walkers if they did not bring them south. It would mean cowardice and dishonour to turn back now. The men had risen and were preparing to move out, awaiting only the orders from Snow or Tarly.
Said Jon, hands on Ghost's fur. He pats the wolf as it licks his face. He had wolven dreams that night and it had affected his mood. There was something or someone far up North, way beyond they stood. He felt Summer's howls in his own skin, wolven or otherwise. But Brandon could have survived that up North? It was almost impossible. How did he reach such lands? This and other questions assailed his mind in the early lights of the day. "We must press to Hardhome. Let every man carry a torch and have dragonglass at the ready"He commanded as Harle the Hunter brought him the black stallion he used to mount. "Close knit formation, I don't want to lose more men to the dead when they separate from the main host. Wear armor and have horns ready for the dead"
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Post by Gandalf on Aug 12, 2020 9:23:40 GMT -5
They trudged on through the Haunted Forest, every snow covered tree beginning to look the same. Their few hours of daylight had been spent, the sun having sunk low so that light no longer pierced through the thick ceiling of pine and branch. Their torches lit the way, their skinny horses padding through the snow in tight squares. No stragglers could be picked off, though that was not to say that the dead did not try. Every step of the way, Osgrey felt eyes upon them and shapes following them through the trees. One man stopped to piss and didn’t return, and none wanted to waste any time looking for him. It was impossible to tell if they were even close to being out of this damned forest, for despite the assurances of the trackers the woods seemed without end and their direction indeterminable. They pass several villages, all long since empty save for the Weirwood trees.
They had spent many long hours on the march when Lord Snow called for them to halt. They had just reached another settlement that had long since been abandoned, if one could call a few decrepit huts with a makeshift wooden fence a village. At least it was on a hillock of sorts, though natural defences were of little use against foes that do not tire or feel pain, especially when most of the Watch were ready to drop dead from cold and fatigue. The wind had risen and begun to howl, and the falling snow was so thick and the sky so dark that a man could scarcely see two paces before him.
That was when the horns rang, long and loud. Three clear blasts, as those who survived the Fist would remember. Men scrambled to their positions and drew whatever weapons came to hand as their enemy shambled towards them, a line of shadows of various sizes emerging slowly through the trees, creatures that walked on two legs and four.
”To your posts!” Osgrey shouted, sword in his right and torch in his left. They were closing on them from all sides, shuffling like puppets. Some held blades, rusted swords of bronze, but like their masters they hated iron and shunned the use of it even in death. Wolves and bears padded alongside them, jaws slack and broken with bloodied hides and rotting flesh, but their eyes still remembered and hated. Those that still lived readied themselves and prayed, the archers sending volleys of Iron and flame into the undead legion as they marched ever onwards. Soon they would be upon them.
”Hold! Hold the line!” The men were wavering already, but there was nowhere to run. They would have to stand and fight or join their enemies in death. If this was to be his fate, then so be it.
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Post by oznerol on Aug 12, 2020 10:48:40 GMT -5
"Raise the banner"
Commanded Jon, as the great standard was unfurled and the Harle twins sounded their horns, blaring in the darkness. He unmounted, removing his cloak and leaving the good plate suit bare, the naked steel shimmering under the torches' light. He walked under his standard to the front.
"Men of the Watch! Men of the North! The terrors and horrors of the night are before us! But, we're not meek children cowering in fear! Join me!"
Then, Harle helped him removed a gauntlet, as commanded, and the glove underneath and he ran through softly the palm of his left hand through the blade.
Let the fire flow, let the fire flow, Lord of Light. I can feel your fire, I can feel the flames...
The Valyrian steel then glowed oddly and flames erupted all over its surface, the fire licking it like an ardent lover, embracing the rippled surface like a mother, while the Valyrian steel remained untouched, almost glad to feel the touch of fire again. He raised the sword, emanating heat like a small furnace, bathing Snow in a soft and warm light. A beacon in the darkness. The Stark then lowered the visor of his wolven-shaped bascinet and moved forward as the direwolf followed him like a large pale shadow, the teeth bared.
"Winterfell! Stark! Hold the ground!"
He rallied, the flaming longsword over his head, surrounded by the tall and heavy armored wildlings, the white wolf running on a black field wavering over his head.
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Post by FieldMarshal Bismarck on Aug 12, 2020 11:24:32 GMT -5
Umber braced for the impact the dead would make upon the line. Screeches of the dead went through bone and marrow as the men of Last Hearth attempted to hold the line, emboldend by the beacon Snow posed in the dark night.. He and they, they and him fighted for their lives. The dead unrelenting in their effort, many men fell. Dead and alive. The living clinging to their blades trying to kill, really kill the undead. As the line started to give way the young Umber lad tried to rally his men.
"Fear not men of the North, stab and stab again and save your wives, your children your aunts and uncles. Fight for what you wish to protect, fight for the living and fight for your damned honor!" He screamed, trying to over stem the sounds of the dead. And as he screamed, Umber went down.. tackled by the dead. Fear beset him.. was this the end? Would nobody come to his aid?
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Post by Gandalf on Aug 12, 2020 15:16:27 GMT -5
With Jon at their head, the living stood firm, albeit their wall of shields and blades was being pushed back by the raw mass of the living dead. A reanimated snow-bear ripped a hole in the left of their line, pushing onwards despite a dozen men hacking at it with axe and spear. A torch was as much of a weapon as a sword against these creatures, Osgrey using both to effect as he hacked a wight to pieces and set it aflame. The Reachman saw Snow with a dozen of the dead around him, standing alone with a sword of living fire and Ghost at his side. They had magic of their own, a dull memory recalling the tales of Azor Ahai and his sword of living flame, a title Stannis had claimed for himself with his glowing blade and his Red Woman. His mind snapped back as he raised his sword to parry the thrust of one of his long dead brothers, whose cold eyes and iron fingers remembered nothing but the hilt of the blade. As the sword dropped into the snow, it closed the gap between them with a speed that defied its condition and barrelled into him, sending them both sprawling. Bright blue eyes poured into his own and the scent of rotting corpses filled his nostrils as the creature silently pressed its hands to his throat. He smashed its face in with a mailed fist, leaving nose and teeth a bloody ruin, but the dead do not flinch. With a sharp gasp he drew the dagger of dragonglass, stabbing the creature furiously wherever he could. His head began to spin as he clawed at his throat with a free hand, trying to pull the fingers away, gasping for breath through gritted teeth. With a snap, a frost bitten finger came off, but the wight did not even notice, only seeming to push harder and harder, almost drowning him in the snow.
Then the head rolled off the shoulders and the arms came off at the elbow. Over him stood Ulmer, that no-eared archer, offering him a hand. Osgrey blinked away the pain and was hauled to his feet. Amidst them the battle raged on, an island of resistance in between what was now a sea of shambling corpses. They had lit the huts afire where they could, and the palisade too, shielding themselves from the enemy with bastions of fire and light. It had even taken up in some of the trees, some of the Haunted Forest itself now burning. After a moment to catch his breath, the Lion of Coldmoat rejoined the fray, hauling an Umber lad to his feet as the Northmen were swarmed by the dead, the men of the Watch coming in force to relieve them.
”For the Watch!” He cried, taking his sword in both hands. Through the trees, something stirred; a dozen gleaming silhouettes of brilliant white light seemed to float towards then, the dead obediently parting to let them pass. They shimmered like constellations, the light of the burning trees glinting off their armour. They were as pale as milkglass, holding swords and spears of sharpened ice. They left no footprints and made no sound, and the flames cowered from them as they passed. They were the Others, the demons of ice and snow, creatures of legend. And yet they stood before them in all their glory, stern and glorious in their majesty. They were the kings of the dead, come to kill all those with warm blood in their veins.
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Post by FieldMarshal Bismarck on Aug 12, 2020 15:45:58 GMT -5
Umber arose with dead parts over him and nodded towards the southerner who saved him, time to thank him there was not however. For the next dead came at him, which he sharply killed by thrusting it in it's head but then came an eary silence in the fighting as the Others arrived. Sending a shiver through Umber's spine. He had know he could encounter them but this fast? With their numbers so dwindled. He looked at Jon Snow and his flaming sword. What would happen now?
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Post by oznerol on Aug 12, 2020 17:57:18 GMT -5
With Jon at their head, the living stood firm, albeit their wall of shields and blades was being pushed back by the raw mass of the living dead. A reanimated snow-bear ripped a hole in the left of their line, pushing onwards despite a dozen men hacking at it with axe and spear. A torch was as much of a weapon as a sword against these creatures, Osgrey using both to effect as he hacked a wight to pieces and set it aflame. The Reachman saw Snow with a dozen of the dead around him, standing alone with a sword of living fire and Ghost at his side. They had magic of their own, a dull memory recalling the tales of Azor Ahai and his sword of living flame, a title Stannis had claimed for himself with his glowing blade and his Red Woman. His mind snapped back as he raised his sword to parry the thrust of one of his long dead brothers, whose cold eyes and iron fingers remembered nothing but the hilt of the blade. As the sword dropped into the snow, it closed the gap between them with a speed that defied its condition and barrelled into him, sending them both sprawling. Bright blue eyes poured into his own and the scent of rotting corpses filled his nostrils as the creature silently pressed its hands to his throat. He smashed its face in with a mailed fist, leaving nose and teeth a bloody ruin, but the dead do not flinch. With a sharp gasp he drew the dagger of dragonglass, stabbing the creature furiously wherever he could. His head began to spin as he clawed at his throat with a free hand, trying to pull the fingers away, gasping for breath through gritted teeth. With a snap, a frost bitten finger came off, but the wight did not even notice, only seeming to push harder and harder, almost drowning him in the snow. Then the head rolled off the shoulders and the arms came off at the elbow. Over him stood Ulmer, that no-eared archer, offering him a hand. Osgrey blinked away the pain and was hauled to his feet. Amidst them the battle raged on, an island of resistance in between what was now a sea of shambling corpses. They had lit the huts afire where they could, and the palisade too, shielding themselves from the enemy with bastions of fire and light. It had even taken up in some of the trees, some of the Haunted Forest itself now burning. After a moment to catch his breath, the Lion of Coldmoat rejoined the fray, hauling an Umber lad to his feet as the Northmen were swarmed by the dead, the men of the Watch coming in force to relieve them. ”For the Watch!” He cried, taking his sword in both hands. Through the trees, something stirred; a dozen gleaming silhouettes of brilliant white light seemed to float towards then, the dead obediently parting to let them pass. They shimmered like constellations, the light of the burning trees glinting off their armour. They were as pale as milkglass, holding swords and spears of sharpened ice. They left no footprints and made no sound, and the flames cowered from them as they passed. They were the Others, the demons of ice and snow, creatures of legend. And yet they stood before them in all their glory, stern and glorious in their majesty. They were the kings of the dead, come to kill all those with warm blood in their veins. The melee degenerated to a desperate brawl when the Others threw their monstrous abominations against the line. And, soon, Jon found himself stranded from his guard, mostly because his sword brought mayhem to the wights and he stood while the others had to give up ground. And Ghost moved faster than wind, tearing limbs and finishing off the wights that Jon injured, it had a few superficial wounds, but a direwolf was a king of the woods, it belonged to the North, and undead were little match against the primigenial wrath of its teeth and claws. Snow swings the sword, left and right, leaving a trail of flames and sparks. The rotten clothes of the dead burst into flames with merely a touch and the steel cut through flesh and bone like it was made of butter. Of the dozen wights he made a rather short job: they could not get through the steel plate, their weapons, tooth and nail simply scratched the surface, while the Warden fought with Valyrian steel, fire and a direwolf on his side. With a swing he cuts the hands reaching for him, with another a leg below the knee, a third and he sent a head to the floor, with the fifth and the sixth were employed in cleaving another of the undead things. Every swing was precise and calculated, for Snow was saving his strenght and he saw the burning eyes all around him. Jon slowly retreated into what he thought were his men, swinging the flaming sword as he went deeper into the village, as the smoke filled the sky and the flames rose roaring. And he suddenly found himself among wildlings, battered and bloody. "Lord Snow, Harle has fallen!""Who?""We don't know, got separated. I think he got eaten by a... dead bear"A few men released fire arrows, felling a score of wights, who started screeching, their flesh burning as they walked in circles. And then, he felt something... just as Ghost finished the walking corpse of a long-dead spearwives he saw the flames flickering, cowering and then... Death itself. The corpses made way to their masters, armored and wielding swords that were as unnatural as the way they moved and behaved. Gods. They came... Jon stood silent for a moment, staring at the sword on his hands, the ripples going through the surface as the flames danced around it. His mind raced, the gears turning at full speed. I hope you're right, Sam the Slayer. Valyrian steel will be enough against these... things?"Dragonglass! Dragonglass! To me! To me! Kill them and they all will be gone!"He grabs the pommel firmly, with both hands, the flames playing lights and shadows over his armored skin. Then he raises the longsword in defiance. He heard the cawing of a crow and Ghost bared his teeth, his fur covered in blackened blood and his own, bright red. Jon could sense the pulsating pain of a dozen minor wounds, but it was a distant thing, bearable. Yet he had suffered no injury. He saw everything with clarity, yet it was full night. He smelled everything, well beyond he normally could, he sensed the howl growing on his throat, even if they both stayed silent. Lord of Light... My father's Gods, give me strenght..."Face me, abomination! Winterfell! Stark!"
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Post by Gandalf on Aug 12, 2020 19:56:04 GMT -5
Stark. They heard the name, the cry of that ancient bloodline, their attention turning to the man that stood before them with a fiery sword in hand and a direwolf at his side, leading the men that had dared to enter their realm. A storm of dragonglass arrows flew through the air, but with no more than a gesture the wights stepped forward to shield their masters with their flesh. More still turned their attention to the archers, and Osgrey left to their defence with a dozen of his best.
”Hold! For the Watch! For the living!” Steel and flame would serve for the dead. A quick sidestep, a downwards cut, black blood spurting onto the blade. It was chaos, a certain defeat. They still had the horses. With enough men, they could break out. Another sidestep, parry, riposte. That was a coward’s thought. Where was Tarly? The demons were drawing closer and closer. One came straight for Jon, a hairless creature of ice made flesh with hair as white and brittle as fresh snow. He was older than the rest, Eustace somehow knew, the most senior of their enemies here today would fight their own leader to take the head from the snake. It raised the sword high and brought it down over Snow’s head, the otherworldly spike of ice and crystal ringing like a tolling bell as it crashed against the valyrian steel. His underlings came for the rest of them, a pair converging on Osgrey and Umber just as another marched for another set of commanders.
”Osgrey! Osgrey!” I will not die nameless at the end of the world. Eustace lifted his sword high as his foe approached, the blue eyes smiling cruelly as it barked a curse in a language he did not understand. He remembered his dagger of dragonglass as the Other swung, their dance beginning as his blade groaned with every parry and strike. It was faster and stronger than he had even thought possible, and found himself wishing his brother was here. Addam was always the better sword. A step, a parry, a blocked riposte. He defended himself in turn, stepping backwards and forwards as the battle raged around them, the dead shambling on with no purpose save to kill.
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Post by oznerol on Aug 13, 2020 3:39:18 GMT -5
Stark. They heard the name, the cry of that ancient bloodline, their attention turning to the man that stood before them with a fiery sword in hand and a direwolf at his side, leading the men that had dared to enter their realm. A storm of dragonglass arrows flew through the air, but with no more than a gesture the wights stepped forward to shield their masters with their flesh. More still turned their attention to the archers, and Osgrey left to their defence with a dozen of his best. ”Hold! For the Watch! For the living!” Steel and flame would serve for the dead. A quick sidestep, a downwards cut, black blood spurting onto the blade. It was chaos, a certain defeat. They still had the horses. With enough men, they could break out. Another sidestep, parry, riposte. That was a coward’s thought. Where was Tarly? The demons were drawing closer and closer. One came straight for Jon, a hairless creature of ice made flesh with hair as white and brittle as fresh snow. He was older than the rest, Eustace somehow knew, the most senior of their enemies here today would fight their own leader to take the head from the snake. It raised the sword high and brought it down over Snow’s head, the otherworldly spike of ice and crystal ringing like a tolling bell as it crashed against the valyrian steel. His underlings came for the rest of them, a pair converging on Osgrey and Umber just as another marched for another set of commanders. ”Osgrey! Osgrey!” I will not die nameless at the end of the world. Eustace lifted his sword high as his foe approached, the blue eyes smiling cruelly as it barked a curse in a language he did not understand. He remembered his dagger of dragonglass as the Other swung, their dance beginning as his blade groaned with every parry and strike. It was faster and stronger than he had even thought possible, and found himself wishing his brother was here. Addam was always the better sword. A step, a parry, a blocked riposte. He defended himself in turn, stepping backwards and forwards as the battle raged around them, the dead shambling on with no purpose save to kill. He said, breathing calmly, while he raised the blade to counter the enemy's first swing. And Jon let the boundaries slip and his own self, the walls erected around his mind crumbled and his eyes openned like never before. Then, he found himself inside Ghost and his own skin at the same time, seeing through both their eyes, like they were a single and one being. And the wolf had sharper senses that he ever would. The arm raised to stop the ice-like blade shakes as the faeric being attacks. The steel rang like a bell and the ice screeched and hissed, like a living thing. The Other's face almost looked surprised that the mortal's blade hadn't been sliced or shattered, he could see the magic woven into the steel, the blood and the fire poured into its creation. And it started, the dance of death. Jon used Ghost to circle around the Other, watching its weakest spots and attacking when needed, trying to distract the oponnent. Snow was fast and able, but the Other was an unnatural thing, magical. Yet, he was not facing a simple man with a sword, but one that changed skins and whose sword was a thing of yore, kissed by the flames of the Lord of Light. The Old Gods and The New. The Other's blade couldn't simply break though Jon's defense, who tried to profit from the uncertainty his very nature could provoke in the ancient being.
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Post by Gandalf on Aug 13, 2020 8:32:50 GMT -5
Step, parry, step. They danced under the darkness, the shimmering blade of diamond-like ice smashing against the steel. It was quick, and better than he. Far better, in fact, and the laughing ghost drove him onto the back foot. Osgrey took the Dragonglass in his left and the steel in his right as he was pushed back, narrowly avoiding a piercing thrust with a sidestep. Fire raged around them, a burning branch falling between them and drawing a hiss of malice from his advancing foe. It renewed its efforts with lightning speed, and Eustace cried out as he missed a beat and was gashed along the ribs. It had sliced through the ringmail like an axe through cheese, and he gingerly felt the wetness of the wound, blood flowing freely to form droplets on the snow. It drew the gaze of his enemy, the blue eyes watching eagerly as the white was stained with crimson.
"Finish it, then." Said the Lion, through bared teeth. He caught the creature off guard with a backhand cut, steel biting into what a man would know as his wrist. It drew no blood, but Eustace heard the crunch of bone and the curse of pain, even if it was in no tongue of man. Pressing his advantage, he thrust for an opening, closing the distance with his dagger in hand. Like a gnat, he was swat aside, his sword shattering like glass as the Other caught his left hand by the wrist, the icy grip burning a mark into his flesh. But for the first time, he saw fear in the creature's eyes as they regarded the dagger of blackened stone. They hated iron, the weapons of the First Men that broke their bones and pierced their skin, but it was Dragonglass they feared. With hate, it turned its gaze to him, the eyes of death boring into his skull.
Thwack. The Other screamed, dropping Eustace to the ground. It was ear splitting, like the howl of a hundred wounded animals, as the icy fingers groped at the shaft that protruded from its back. And then, nothing. It was blown away in the wind, numberless snowflakes drifting off into darkness. Another noise just like it came from further afar, and for a moment the servants of death seemed to halt and waver, as if they had for a few moments lost all purpose. Osgrey struggled to his feet, the world spinning around him, scrambling for a weapon as he ran to find cover.
---
Dragonsteel was their bane, the sword of the Last Hero bringing death and fear to the deathless. When their blades met, sparks of ice flew skywards, the fury of Jon's attack and his sword of fire driving the creature back. In a dozen tongues, it cursed him, deflecting his furious assault with parry and riposte. It had perhaps expected easier pickings, and where against mere men it was imperious it was now cowed and cowardly, driven back by wolf and steel. From a thousand angles Jon saw the creature's every move, from the eyes of Ghost and Mormont's crow that had nested in the treetops, watching their dance with beady black eyes. They saw things he did not, they saw the opening that broke the Other's guard, the thrust that pierced its icy heart, that shattered the ancient magic that bound their bodies in ice and death. It broke into innumerable pieces with a curse as ancient as the world itself, and with the death of their elder the rest of their number knew fear, for the first time in ten thousand years.
---
Both get +1 to resilience.
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Post by oznerol on Aug 13, 2020 9:47:07 GMT -5
Step, parry, step. They danced under the darkness, the shimmering blade of diamond-like ice smashing against the steel. It was quick, and better than he. Far better, in fact, and the laughing ghost drove him onto the back foot. Osgrey took the Dragonglass in his left and the steel in his right as he was pushed back, narrowly avoiding a piercing thrust with a sidestep. Fire raged around them, a burning branch falling between them and drawing a hiss of malice from his advancing foe. It renewed its efforts with lightning speed, and Eustace cried out as he missed a beat and was gashed along the ribs. It had sliced through the ringmail like an axe through cheese, and he gingerly felt the wetness of the wound, blood flowing freely to form droplets on the snow. It drew the gaze of his enemy, the blue eyes watching eagerly as the white was stained with crimson. "Finish it, then." Said the Lion, through bared teeth. He caught the creature off guard with a backhand cut, steel biting into what a man would know as his wrist. It drew no blood, but Eustace heard the crunch of bone and the curse of pain, even if it was in no tongue of man. Pressing his advantage, he thrust for an opening, closing the distance with his dagger in hand. Like a gnat, he was swat aside, his sword shattering like glass as the Other caught his left hand by the wrist, the icy grip burning a mark into his flesh. But for the first time, he saw fear in the creature's eyes as they regarded the blackened stone. They hated iron, the weapons of the First Men that broke their bones and pierced their skin, but it was Dragonglass they feared. With hate, it turned its gaze to him, the eyes of death boring into his skull. Thwack. The Other screamed, dropping Eustace to the ground. It was ear splitting, like the howl of a hundred wounded animals, as the icy fingers groped at the shaft that protruded from its back. And then, nothing. It was blown away in the wind, numberless snowflakes drifting off into nothing. Another noise just like it came from further afar, and for a moment the servants of death seemed to halt and waver, as if they had for a few moments lost all purpose. Osgrey struggled to his feet, the world spinning around him, scrambling for a weapon as he ran to find cover. --- Dragonsteel was their bane, the sword of the Last Hero bringing death and fear to the deathless. When their blades met, sparks of ice flew skywards, the fury of Jon's attack and his sword of fire driving the creature back. In a dozen tongues, it cursed him, deflecting his furious assault with parry and riposte. It had perhaps expected easier pickings, and where against mere men it was imperious it was now cowed and cowardly, driven back by wolf and steel. From a thousand angles Jon saw the creature's every move, from the eyes of Ghost and Mormont's crow that had nested in the treetops, watching their dance with beady black eyes. They saw things he did not, they saw the opening that broke the Other's guard, the thrust that pierced its icy heart, that shattered the ancient magic that bound their bodies in ice and death. It broke into innumerable pieces with a curse as ancient as the world itself, and with the death of their elder the rest of their number knew fear, for the first time in ten thousand years. Jon roared in triumph when he broke through the ancient being's defense, cutting through the translucent armor and into its ancient bloodless heart. And it shattered like glass, in a million fragments, covering the ground with the pieces. The Other's shriek remained in the air for a long time, a long painful howl filled with anguish and fear. They would not die that night. He saw through a thousand angles, and saw all over the battlefield, he hurried himself to the support of those in need, sword in hand and wolf in tow.
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Post by FieldMarshal Bismarck on Aug 13, 2020 11:44:13 GMT -5
Umber stood eye in eye with an other, long were his manes almost equal to the small bear Umber was himself. Umber carried a dragonglass dagger as the material had been to scarce to make a sword for him but Umber carried his normal long sword in his other hand. The fire of last hearth burned inside Rickon whom looked into a cold, icy gaze from the Other as they started to circle each other. The Other making small but nimble steps compared to the uncertain steps made by umber, plowing through the snow. Rickon had to fight him, there was no other way as men of Last Hearth died around him from fighting wights.
Rickon tried to jab towards the Other but the Other was too quick, scratching a deep wound on Umbers arm. Umber stepped back, balancing his weight on his left foot, and threw his right fist out in a curved punch at the Other his temple. Turning ninety degrees to the side, he brought his right forearm up to counter the blow, formed a fist with his left, and threw it at Umber's outstretched jaw. Umber lost his footing and struggled to regain is while the Other stept closer in a near slow motion. The Other heaved his sword and pushed it through Umber's steel armor as if it was butter. Thankfully due to Umber's unusual stuttering though the snow the other hit nothing vital and he gazed at Umber with undoubtedly the thought why he didn't fall. Realizing the opportunity Umber trusted his sword into the other only for it to explode and severely hurting Rickon's face. The Other stepped back though, in shock of being hit.
Rickon regained his footing and bled significantly through his armor. Blood dripping steadily on the floor. Rickon felt his pulse going slower and slower, black spots forming in his eyes. As the Other drew near again. The snow and ice of beyond the wall smelled of nothing, the dead brother's of this expedition didn't even reek of death. The undead and the Other's emitting nothing but cold and terror... and in that moment the Other heaved his sword and struck the Umber lad once more.. now right through the leg, pinning Umber in place. Blood from his chest wound and now his leg wound made the ground red, blood all over the Umber face, soiling his beard. He laughed as the Other tilted his head and looked at him with the icy gaze they all had. As the Other prepared to make his final move.. a terrible sound erupted, the Other caught by surprise shifted his head to it's left and saw the shattering glass of one of his own by Lord Snow and in that moment of faint hope Rickon trusted his dagger through the Other his armor, right into his cold, dead spleen. Shattering it to glass.
Umber laughed, before he choked on his own blood for a moment before saying "For the North" falling down on his back into the cold, cold snow... passing out.
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Post by Gandalf on Aug 14, 2020 8:35:57 GMT -5
With a few of their number dead, the Others seemingly knew fear. Their masters slain, many of the dead dropped in heaps or began to roam listlessly, allowing the Black Brothers some small reprieve as the intensity of the assault lessened. They were given time to burn and destroy their own dead to prevent them from rising against them, and to find and aid the wounded. Umber was hauled away by his own bannermen, the great bear of Last Hearth being wrapped in furs and slung over the back of a horse. Osgrey picked up a sword from one of the fallen and took charge of the wounded while Lord Snow continued to command the vanguard. A few more of those creatures gingerly approached him, crystal swords drawn, for now they had tasted mortality they were loath to confront him alone.
We should retreat. Thought Osgrey, in the clarity that a few moments of respite had won for him. They would not win here by strength of arms, with so few men left. Every man slain meant another foe, and Eustace had been forced to put down more than one of his former brothers with steel and fire. The Wights came back too, if you did not kill them properly. But for now at least they held the line, a shrinking circle of shields and spears that was being pressed from all sides.
Rickon gets +1 resilience.
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Post by oznerol on Aug 16, 2020 8:18:20 GMT -5
"Hardhome is lost"
Said Jon to himself when the realization hunk. There were too many dead close to the Wall. The wildlings had to fall first for them to move this close. They were too late, far too late.
"Pull back! Orderly retreat! To the Wall!"
He commanded.
So many men died because of my foolishness.
Snow broods.
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Post by Gandalf on Aug 16, 2020 19:45:14 GMT -5
They broke and made for the Wall, those who could mount horses following the former Lord Commander as he broke through the ranks of the dead with an organised charge. The wounded were tied to the horses by those that could still fight, while the dead were left for the enemy amidst the burning trees. Osgrey mounted a hairy garron and led what remained of his own battalion out from the hill-top, riding towards what he thought would be the direction of the Wall. Many were pulled from their steeds and lost amidst the dead, and more were simply left stranded as they were unable to reach the horses. They’d lost two hundred men at the least, the ragged group making their way south and quickly losing their pursuers on horseback. For whatever reason, the dead were not not with their pursuit.
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