The Tavinmore Chronicles: Chapter 2; Part 2


The screams echoed through the courtyard as Dalmort raced from the training hall. He cursed himself tenfold for not listening to his gut. His blade is unsheathing itself even as he runs to the dilemma. All the warmth in him drains as he imagines the worst.

In front of the castle peasants stand agape, some pointing to the tower, others withered on the ground. The panic and fear grip at Dalmort's throat; he swallows it down and runs to the keep gate. The soldier there is lax: the butt of his rifle on the ground with only his index finger preventing the barrel from slipping away from his side. His gaze is locked on the wall at the top of the stairs; a look of horror splayed across his face. Dalmort slams his shoulders against the wall, pinning him to the stone. The rifle clatters to the ground but is inaudible below the raging voice of Dalmort, "WHERE IS SHE?!" The soldier turns white and Dalmort can feel his pulse fluttering. "WHERE?!" He lifts up the fading man, shaking him like a child’s toy.

A scream from the upstairs brings his senses back and he drops the poor fool. His muscles carry him with an alacrity that blurs the moments and suddenly he is there, in her room, facing only a chill breeze that flows in from the broken windows. The ink pooled on her desk has cascaded to the floor and papers flutter about the room. The bed has been torn and every piece of furniture has been flung or smashed. The screams had been issued by the chambermaid, (who had heard nothing while only a room away) when she entered to retrieve linens and found instead, this ghastly scene. To Dalmort's relief, he spots no blood.
"This wasn't an assassination, it was a kidnapping..." That fact, said mostly to allay his own fears, comforts him little. "What we need now... is a plan..."

Unknown "Sweet Prince" Gloomy - 16 years, 9 months, 5 days ago

The Tavinmore Chronicles: Errata 2


On the outskirts of Tavinmore the poor and meek etch out a sort of life: up before the sun to tend the crops, out in the pasture guarding animals through the night; all to ensure the health of a Military that both protects, and controls them. These things become second nature; they become a reason to exist. When the dirty denizens have time to themselves, it is spent praying, and thanking The Faith. It is this act alone that will get them through the next day, and the next, and the next. It is a way to relinquish control, to feel safe while the world silently plots their demise, a way to escape. These people will never amass wealth or own property. Many of them will never see more than 100 years, dying from disease, broken limbs, and more commonly: heartache. This life takes a toll on the spirit that even The Faith cannot heal; the younger watching the young die.

It was worse before. Giang'he roamed every inch of Earth, destroying anything they could not make their own. It had been this way for as long as anyone knew. The fossil record itself contains countless examples of Giang'he and Sevivort dying together, wrapped in a bloody embrace of tooth and claw. Even before these mighty races walked on two legs the fight for survival had begun.

It was 2001 B.E. when the Casraens established the first unified court of the Sevivorts: a small township known as Tavinmore (named for the patriarch's wife, Tavina). Protected by high walls and an ingenious engineer: Tavinmore grew. Before long Sevivorts were coming from all over Earth, offering goods or services. Those who were deemed acceptable became part of a family, pledging loyalty or death. Many were turned away; some went on to establish new towns, with new codes. The province of Shiam was one of the few successful towns that sprung from the overflow. As Tavinmore's closest neighbor, Shiam has seen their fair share of strife. In 2204 B.E., Shiam was briefly occupied by the Giang'he in an attempt to overthrow Tavinmore. Dalmort was just a boy then, the tender age of 101. He had been in training for 26 short years. A private in the Unified Sevivort Military (USM), Dalmort had never seen combat. It was this event that would shape his future.

Dalmort belonged to 2nd Company. His squad arrived after the walls had been breached and two other companies had been defeated. The ground was crimson, soaked with the loss of hope. Each footstep was sucked into the brackish mud and the smell of excreted and eliminated fear permeated even the stone. 2nd Company cleaned up the mess and sent the Giang'he packing. Dalmort recieved three accolades that day and was to be put directly into Officer training. He declined the offer and left the USM that same day. Much speculation came from this, but one rumor never died: in Tavinmore Castle, Dalmort had saved a young woman. He then swore to protect her until his dying breath.

Unknown "Sweet Prince" Gloomy - 16 years, 9 months, 6 days ago

The Tavinmore Chronicles: Errata 1


Sam'el was Dalmort's childhood friend. A comrade in play, and eventually in arms. Today Sam'el sits in the under-heated barracks cleaning his weapon. The wood stock (carved by his grandfather) has been gutted and the metal elements of the weapon are being scrubbed. The barrel is checked for straightness and the trigger is relieved of its slight sticking problem. To Sam'el, this is a nightly ritual that has cost him friends and lovers, but one necessary to survival. Too many times has he seen an over-eager soldier tarring through the battlefield toward the Giang'he; only to be shot down when his rifle misfires.
Sam'el Shudders. The only thing scarier than the Giang'he are their tactics. Their brutality, their animism; it is rivaled only by one. Dalmort.
He has seen Dalmort strip a Giang'he of its spine with one hand; watched him gargle the blood of his foes as he plows through a line of insurgents; gazed in horror, as Dalmort saved his life, ripping through a Giang'he that was standing over Sam'el, poised for the kill. He can still remember Dalmort's Face popping through the body as it cleft in half; bloody and excited.
"That sword of his... is it magic? How could one man survive against so many guns with just an overgrown Butter knife?" Sam'el had wrestled this question since the moment Dalmort had joined the Armed Forces with the exception that he would never use a gun. He hadn't been the only one that laughed. No one could have foreseen the monster Dalmort had become on the battlefield. "Nope; no doubt in my mind. They came for you... brother."

Unknown "Sweet Prince" Gloomy - 16 years, 9 months, 28 days ago

The Tavinmore Chronicles: Chapter 2; Part 1


Between the stained glass windows, on an insufficient writing desk, propped on her remaining arm, Lady Casraen scratches at her stitches.
"This infernal burning: will it never stop..."
She sits in front of her unwritten correspondence: a letter to the neighboring province, beseeching the resources necessary for Tavinmore's survival. It is not something she's been looking forward to; but it did give her the opportunity to shoo away all the well-wishers and over zealous caretakers. At the time, the prospect of some alone time seemed like a welcome exception to the recent months. Now the hours grow tedious, and each sentence she doesn't write burns in her brain.

Dalmort too, is doing some soul searching. He has been in the training hall since Lady Casraen took a turn for the better. Though her wellness excited him, the prospect of a secondary attack (a clean up crew, so to speak) made him cautious of leaving her unattended; at all. It was only because she seemed so radiant, that he had even agreed in the first place.
This is Dalmort's fifth training dummy and the brutality he has unleashed upon the last four has brought about onlookers. His former classmates hover about, laughing amongst themselves as Dalmort swings his primitive weapon. The dummies are nearly indestructible against firearms; some have lasted years without replacement. Against Dalmort none are safe; his rage doing more harm than his blade.
"How did they get in?" The question repeats itself in his mind until it's all he can hear.

Unknown "Sweet Prince" Gloomy - 16 years, 10 months, 8 days ago

The Tavinmore Chronicles: Chapter 1; Part 4


Dalmort sits alone by the bedside of Lady Casraen. Waiting for her to awake and face the dismal outcome of her kingdom. He gazes into the wall, not trying to see through it, but attempting to see the future on its blank face. His apprehension does not allow for him to think clearly, as he is constantly looking down at the one he swore to protect.
"Damn fool..." he mutters to himself, "must be getting old..."
Indeed he was, already he had seen 297 years, the brunt of which was spent training for his position as Castle Guardian. He remembers how his peers laughed at him. He was on the fast track for Admiral when he decided his life would be better spent defending those in need, than destroying those who may be innocent.
"Let them come to me," he thought. "Let them prove their worthiness to be run-through."
Those were happier times. Now He questions his choice. With his charge so baddly wounded, could he ever be forgiven?
"Perhaps I should retire now; and save myself the humiliation of having to face--"
His thoughts are stopped by a warm hand aqainst his face. He looks down at Lady Casraen, who in turn, is looking up at him. There is a bright halo around him, and she can't decide if it is a trick of the lights and her blurry eyes, or if this truely is a saint awaiting to take her to the Faith.
"My lady... I have failied you..."
Unknown "Sweet Prince" Gloomy - 16 years, 10 months, 24 days ago