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maderrI do not understand the way my mind works. I was contemplating Highwayman, working out the problems I still have with it, and all of a sudden BAM.
Something else entirely, so completely not related. It's like being in LA, blinking, and suddenly you're in Sibera.
I really wish it would stop.
Ah, well. FYE, if you want, b/c I'm not doing anything with it for a long ass time. My plans are: Highwayman, Cursed Knight, Treasure, Kidnapped, Fae story, and then I shall consider other stuff.
This...I never expected. I still could not tell you what brought it to life.
“This is really it?”
“Yes,” Ingolf replied. He wiped sweat from his face and neck as he watched them admire the sword, hoping they would be too busy to notice how profusely he was sweating, or mark it to exertion rather than the cold fear he’d felt since this entire thing had begun.
“I cannot believe it,” said Sepp. “This must be a dream. It cannot be possible.”
“It is very possible, my friends,” Ingolf said, satisfaction and pride and excitement begin to heat his blood now that the fear was fading. “I have done it, and you hold it.”
Pancraz looked at it with awe, eyes shining even in the dim light of the abandoned cabin they’d overtaken for their own use. “The sword of the Holy General himself,” he breathed, as if afraid to give voice to the words. “It looks precisely like the legends say – I thought for sure it would be the complete opposite.”
Ingolf gazed at the sword, seeing again the marble hands which had held it, the carved face which had seemed to stare so coldly at him. That was when the cold sweat had broken out, when those marble eyes had glared at him, and every story he’d ever heard of the Holy General flooded his mind.
He shoved the memory away, dismissed it, because it did not matter now in the least. The sword was now in their hands, and they would use it to drive back the bastards seeking to subjugate them. Most of the country had fallen to defeat – but not all of it.
They would sooner die than kneel before those filthy bastards.
“Did you hear that?” Sepp hissed.
“Shut up,” Ingolf snapped, retrieving his own sword from the floor as he did, indeed, hear something. Boots in snow, trying to be quiet but nature preventing him from being entirely successful.
Then the door crashed open, hit the floor with a thud as the old leather hinges finally gave in to age and mistreatment.
Ingolf drew a sharp breath despite himself. In lamplight and moonlight, their attacker was a handsome one. His hair was so pale it looked silver in the dark, and though his eyes were not clear, he knew they would be just as pale, so too the skin that seemed to reflect the moonlight.
He was not slight, however, but broad in the chest and shoulders, all but filling the doorway. “Give it back,” the stranger bellowed, brandishing a sword that Ingolf was impressed he could properly use. Didn’t these people typically prefer smaller swords? He had never met one who bore a sword equal in size to his own native style.
Intriguing. Drawing his sword, he motioned Sepp and Pancraz back. “The sword belongs to us.”
“No, it does not,” the man said, and lunged.
Ingolf blocked the swing, but just barely. Swearing loudly, he shoved the man back and lunged forward and down, retrieving the stolen sword before bolting outside.
An angry bellowed followed him, and he swung around just in time to block another swing.
“Stay out of it,” he said sharply as he saw his friends moving to join the fray. “Three against one is no fair.”
“Well, well, look at that. One of you is trying to play at honor.”
Ingolf snarled and swung angrily, laughing in cold triumph when he managed to slice a wound on the bastard’s arm. “Who are you to question my honor? I am guilty of many things, but not dishonor.”
“Stealing sounds a dishonorable crime to me, bastard,” the man replied, and the fight was on again.
“You just let it sit around collecting dust,” Ingolf replied, gasping the words out between swings, muscles aching after his earlier exertions, but some part of him thrilling at finding such a worthy opponent even amidst the unhappy reasons for the duel.
The wound had not slowed the bastard down at all – merely forced him to fight with his left rather than his right. Impressive. Under any other circumstance, Ingolf would have defeated him and then fucked him. “You leave it to rot,” he continued, “and we intend to use it.”
“Maybe you should accept your days of glory are at last come to an end, and you are getting what you have always deserved.”
“You know nothing about it,” Ingolf bellowed. “Your country is not free of taint. Who are you to question me?”
“I am the owner of that sword, and you will return it or find yourself returning home lacking both sword and head.”
Ingolf sneered. “No man owns that sword.”
“Return it,” the man bellowed.
“Prove it is yours and perhaps I’ll let you see it one last time before I kill you,” Ingolf returned, amused despite himself, enjoying himself though he should be afraid because this man was proving to be his equal.
The man roared again, pale eyes flashing, and he looked like nothing so much as the moonlight come to life in the form of a fierce warrior. Beautiful. “Prove it? I have nothing to prove to you. I am Erich von Adolwulf, Duke of Korte, descendant of the Holy General himself – return the sword or die.”
Ingolf charged, but it was only later that he admitted to himself that the snow was the only reason he was alive.
He stared at the body of the fallen von Adolwulf, the knelt to examine the head wound he had incurred from his fall on an unseen patch of ice. There was no blood, a good sign.
“Is he really related to the Holy General?” Sepp asked.
Ingolf shrugged. “I would imagine that is not something anyone would claim to be lightly. He did say he was the Duke of Korte, which was the Holy General’s title.”
“What are we going to do with him?”
“Take him with us,” Ingolf said. “If he has come after us, others will be on their way. That aside, if he really is the Duke of Korte, he will know things about the sword we do not and it could help us.” His mouth tightened as he thought of all they must, how small a chance they had – no chance, really, if they were resorting to stealing the sword of the Holy General on the small chance the legends of it resisting Salharan magic were true.
But they needed all the help they could get. If they did not find someway to defeat the Salharan magic waging out of control and overtaking Kria – then by the spring thaw there would no longer be a Kria.
Something else entirely, so completely not related. It's like being in LA, blinking, and suddenly you're in Sibera.
I really wish it would stop.
Ah, well. FYE, if you want, b/c I'm not doing anything with it for a long ass time. My plans are: Highwayman, Cursed Knight, Treasure, Kidnapped, Fae story, and then I shall consider other stuff.
This...I never expected. I still could not tell you what brought it to life.
Prologue
A man needs three people in his life – someone to kneel before, someone to walk beside, and someone to hold.
~The Holy General
A man needs three people in his life – someone to kneel before, someone to walk beside, and someone to hold.
~The Holy General
“This is really it?”
“Yes,” Ingolf replied. He wiped sweat from his face and neck as he watched them admire the sword, hoping they would be too busy to notice how profusely he was sweating, or mark it to exertion rather than the cold fear he’d felt since this entire thing had begun.
“I cannot believe it,” said Sepp. “This must be a dream. It cannot be possible.”
“It is very possible, my friends,” Ingolf said, satisfaction and pride and excitement begin to heat his blood now that the fear was fading. “I have done it, and you hold it.”
Pancraz looked at it with awe, eyes shining even in the dim light of the abandoned cabin they’d overtaken for their own use. “The sword of the Holy General himself,” he breathed, as if afraid to give voice to the words. “It looks precisely like the legends say – I thought for sure it would be the complete opposite.”
Ingolf gazed at the sword, seeing again the marble hands which had held it, the carved face which had seemed to stare so coldly at him. That was when the cold sweat had broken out, when those marble eyes had glared at him, and every story he’d ever heard of the Holy General flooded his mind.
He shoved the memory away, dismissed it, because it did not matter now in the least. The sword was now in their hands, and they would use it to drive back the bastards seeking to subjugate them. Most of the country had fallen to defeat – but not all of it.
They would sooner die than kneel before those filthy bastards.
“Did you hear that?” Sepp hissed.
“Shut up,” Ingolf snapped, retrieving his own sword from the floor as he did, indeed, hear something. Boots in snow, trying to be quiet but nature preventing him from being entirely successful.
Then the door crashed open, hit the floor with a thud as the old leather hinges finally gave in to age and mistreatment.
Ingolf drew a sharp breath despite himself. In lamplight and moonlight, their attacker was a handsome one. His hair was so pale it looked silver in the dark, and though his eyes were not clear, he knew they would be just as pale, so too the skin that seemed to reflect the moonlight.
He was not slight, however, but broad in the chest and shoulders, all but filling the doorway. “Give it back,” the stranger bellowed, brandishing a sword that Ingolf was impressed he could properly use. Didn’t these people typically prefer smaller swords? He had never met one who bore a sword equal in size to his own native style.
Intriguing. Drawing his sword, he motioned Sepp and Pancraz back. “The sword belongs to us.”
“No, it does not,” the man said, and lunged.
Ingolf blocked the swing, but just barely. Swearing loudly, he shoved the man back and lunged forward and down, retrieving the stolen sword before bolting outside.
An angry bellowed followed him, and he swung around just in time to block another swing.
“Stay out of it,” he said sharply as he saw his friends moving to join the fray. “Three against one is no fair.”
“Well, well, look at that. One of you is trying to play at honor.”
Ingolf snarled and swung angrily, laughing in cold triumph when he managed to slice a wound on the bastard’s arm. “Who are you to question my honor? I am guilty of many things, but not dishonor.”
“Stealing sounds a dishonorable crime to me, bastard,” the man replied, and the fight was on again.
“You just let it sit around collecting dust,” Ingolf replied, gasping the words out between swings, muscles aching after his earlier exertions, but some part of him thrilling at finding such a worthy opponent even amidst the unhappy reasons for the duel.
The wound had not slowed the bastard down at all – merely forced him to fight with his left rather than his right. Impressive. Under any other circumstance, Ingolf would have defeated him and then fucked him. “You leave it to rot,” he continued, “and we intend to use it.”
“Maybe you should accept your days of glory are at last come to an end, and you are getting what you have always deserved.”
“You know nothing about it,” Ingolf bellowed. “Your country is not free of taint. Who are you to question me?”
“I am the owner of that sword, and you will return it or find yourself returning home lacking both sword and head.”
Ingolf sneered. “No man owns that sword.”
“Return it,” the man bellowed.
“Prove it is yours and perhaps I’ll let you see it one last time before I kill you,” Ingolf returned, amused despite himself, enjoying himself though he should be afraid because this man was proving to be his equal.
The man roared again, pale eyes flashing, and he looked like nothing so much as the moonlight come to life in the form of a fierce warrior. Beautiful. “Prove it? I have nothing to prove to you. I am Erich von Adolwulf, Duke of Korte, descendant of the Holy General himself – return the sword or die.”
Ingolf charged, but it was only later that he admitted to himself that the snow was the only reason he was alive.
He stared at the body of the fallen von Adolwulf, the knelt to examine the head wound he had incurred from his fall on an unseen patch of ice. There was no blood, a good sign.
“Is he really related to the Holy General?” Sepp asked.
Ingolf shrugged. “I would imagine that is not something anyone would claim to be lightly. He did say he was the Duke of Korte, which was the Holy General’s title.”
“What are we going to do with him?”
“Take him with us,” Ingolf said. “If he has come after us, others will be on their way. That aside, if he really is the Duke of Korte, he will know things about the sword we do not and it could help us.” His mouth tightened as he thought of all they must, how small a chance they had – no chance, really, if they were resorting to stealing the sword of the Holy General on the small chance the legends of it resisting Salharan magic were true.
But they needed all the help they could get. If they did not find someway to defeat the Salharan magic waging out of control and overtaking Kria – then by the spring thaw there would no longer be a Kria.
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Date: 2008-03-25 12:22 am (UTC)How many years later would this take place from Prisoner?
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Date: 2008-03-25 10:42 am (UTC)About five or six generations, I'm still working out the details.
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Date: 2008-03-25 12:24 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-03-25 10:43 am (UTC)Dieter von Adolwulf was the Holy General, if you ever read Prisoner ^__^
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Date: 2008-03-25 12:24 am (UTC)Seriously though! AHHH!!! Prisoner-verse!!! *tackle glomps* I LOVE the quote in the beginning, and I love the way that Ingolf stole the sword, I love the significance of the sword to them, and I love that Erich came after it as he did, and I love LOVE Ingolf's thoughts about Erich as he's fighting him. ^_______^
*purrs happily* I loves it!
And I have to say that bits from any of the stories listed above are teh love. <33 ^__^
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Date: 2008-03-25 02:43 am (UTC)speaking of, did you get the stuff I sent? I swear to god I was ready to kill my email this weekend. I'd be impressed if anything reached you.
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Date: 2008-03-25 03:17 am (UTC)Sorry! I really did get them! And I really did respond to them too! *kicks yahoo's ass* Stupid email service. It's gotta be on my end, because I get your emails. It's just that yahoo doesn't seem to like letting them go back. >_>
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Date: 2008-03-25 12:37 am (UTC)GUH.
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Date: 2008-03-25 12:46 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-03-25 12:49 am (UTC)*huggles* Happy-neeeeeeeeessss!!!
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Date: 2008-04-05 05:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-03-25 12:55 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-03-25 01:09 am (UTC)Me thinks I know you too well. ^__^
Also <3
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Date: 2008-03-25 01:23 am (UTC)Heh. Methinks you do. One day, I will get you.
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Date: 2008-03-25 01:13 am (UTC)*faints*
*revives*
WOW! OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
*stare*
*faints*
-hugs the shiny-
Date: 2008-03-25 01:27 am (UTC)wow.... how vould diester have a descendant?
yay, the arcen sword! -claps-
this makes me soooo happy, i just finishesd prisoner and i missed it sooo much and now... -faints from joy-
i need sleep
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Date: 2008-03-25 01:55 am (UTC)But very nice begining. ^_____^
Also - you listen to zwei? I have a friend who gave me two of their songs, which I loved, and I've never found them since.
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Date: 2008-03-25 02:19 am (UTC)If you continue this I will do anything you ask, ANYTHING *swears*
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Date: 2008-03-25 02:27 am (UTC)But how is it possible? Erich's features are very Illussor...so I'm assuming Diether and Beraht adopted a child of their own at one point. >.>
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Date: 2008-03-25 02:45 am (UTC)more please :)
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Date: 2008-03-25 02:48 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-03-25 04:36 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-03-25 06:30 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-03-25 07:21 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-03-25 01:14 pm (UTC)i adore sequels, (which i assume this is?) and will wait patiently for it, although i feel like i will in the meantime drive myself nuts trying to figure out all the connections with the past from this one lil' section.
thanks!
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Date: 2008-03-25 01:39 pm (UTC)Familiar Arcs are always beautiful... except for the part where you know the characters you love are now dead.
Or turned to marble (?)
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Date: 2008-03-25 03:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-03-25 09:07 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-03-27 12:17 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-04-05 05:32 pm (UTC)BUT IT DOES NOT MATER FOR I HAVE MORE PRISONER-VERSE, AND YES, IT MAY LACK DIETER D: BUT STILL MY HEART HAS LONG WAITED TO FEEL SUCH JOY. I LESS THAN THREE YOU, MEGAN.
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Date: 2008-06-27 02:32 pm (UTC)