Palatine

The sun had dipped low on the horizon, painting the sky with streaks of deep orange and crimson as Nosh and his company approached the burnt remnants of the Old Capital. The air was thick with the smell of charred wood and lingering ash, a stark reminder of the recent devastation that had ravaged the once-proud city. Around them, the farmland stretched in ruin—fields once lush with crops now lay barren, their soil churned and blackened. The group rode cautiously, their horses' hooves crunching against the brittle earth, each man tense and watchful.

Without warning, the whistling sound of arrows split the eerie silence. A sudden cry broke from one of Nosh’s men as an arrow struck him, sending him toppling from his saddle. Chaos erupted as more arrows rained down. The group panicked, spurring their horses toward the cover of the nearby forest, a dark and tangled mass of ancient trees that loomed like silent sentinels.

As they plunged deeper into the forest, the sounds of the outside world faded. The cries of birds, the rustling of wind in the grass—all were replaced by an oppressive stillness. The only noises came from the occasional snap of twigs and rustling leaves, though the origin of these sounds remained unseen. Each man exchanged uneasy glances, their hands hovering near their weapons, though they reassured themselves it was only animals.

After nearly an hour of weaving through the dense, shadowy woods, the group slowed. The trees pressed tightly around them, their gnarled branches blocking out much of the remaining light. They were lost. Nosh called for a halt, dismounting to survey their surroundings.

Before they could regain their bearings, figures emerged from the shadows, silent and menacing. Clad in black cloaks adorned with a single red star emblazoned over their chests, they moved with practiced precision, their weapons gleaming faintly in the dim light. One stepped forward and raised his sword high, his voice sharp and accusing.

"For honor! Down with Mlociniakik!"

The group froze, tension crackling like a taut bowstring. Nosh, still astride his horse, raised his hand to signal calm. His noble coat, embroidered with the sigil of Amatland, caught what little light there was. "We are with Amatland!" he declared in a firm voice. "I am Nosh of Amatland!"

The leader of the men in black stepped closer, his expression dark and unforgiving. "Lies," he spat. "The people of Amatland do not flee like cowards, unlike the vermin of Mlociniakik."

Before Nosh could reply, the man lunged, his blade slashing at Nosh’s leg. The noble reeled in pain but was prepared. Drawing his dagger in one swift motion, he thrust it upward, piercing the man’s head. The attacker crumpled to the ground, his blood darkening the forest floor.

Chaos erupted. The remaining men in black charged, their swords clashing against those of Nosh’s companions. The forest came alive with the sounds of battle—the cries of the wounded, the metallic ring of steel, and the desperate shouts of men fighting for their lives.

When the melee finally subsided, the forest fell silent once more. The attackers lay dead, their black cloaks splayed like shadows on the ground. Of Nosh’s group, only three remained standing, bloodied and battered.

Nosh sat heavily on a fallen log, clutching his wounded leg, his face pale but resolute. His voice trembled with a mix of anger and despair. "More men defying my command... First the Christian cities of the north, now these rogues? Who are they? Why are Mlociniakik Forces here? I don't even know."

One of his men, a grizzled veteran with a gash across his brow, knelt beside him. "They bore no sigils of Mlociniakik, my lord. Perhaps...another faction, emboldened by the chaos?"

Nosh shook his head, his hand tightening into a fist. "It matters not. They are yet another threat to Amatland. May Belemis save our realm, for even I, its lord, begin to doubt I can."

The men gathered what they could from the fallen, scavenging weapons and supplies. As night descended fully, they knew they could not stay long in the forest, but the way forward seemed darker than ever—both literally and figuratively. Amatland teetered on the edge of collapse, and Nosh carried the weight of its survival on his bloodstained shoulders.

The Princely Confederacy wrote:

The sun had dipped low on the horizon, painting the sky with streaks of deep orange and crimson as Nosh and his company approached the burnt remnants of the Old Capital. The air was thick with the smell of charred wood and lingering ash, a stark reminder of the recent devastation that had ravaged the once-proud city. Around them, the farmland stretched in ruin—fields once lush with crops now lay barren, their soil churned and blackened. The group rode cautiously, their horses' hooves crunching against the brittle earth, each man tense and watchful.

Without warning, the whistling sound of arrows split the eerie silence. A sudden cry broke from one of Nosh’s men as an arrow struck him, sending him toppling from his saddle. Chaos erupted as more arrows rained down. The group panicked, spurring their horses toward the cover of the nearby forest, a dark and tangled mass of ancient trees that loomed like silent sentinels.

As they plunged deeper into the forest, the sounds of the outside world faded. The cries of birds, the rustling of wind in the grass—all were replaced by an oppressive stillness. The only noises came from the occasional snap of twigs and rustling leaves, though the origin of these sounds remained unseen. Each man exchanged uneasy glances, their hands hovering near their weapons, though they reassured themselves it was only animals.

After nearly an hour of weaving through the dense, shadowy woods, the group slowed. The trees pressed tightly around them, their gnarled branches blocking out much of the remaining light. They were lost. Nosh called for a halt, dismounting to survey their surroundings.

Before they could regain their bearings, figures emerged from the shadows, silent and menacing. Clad in black cloaks adorned with a single red star emblazoned over their chests, they moved with practiced precision, their weapons gleaming faintly in the dim light. One stepped forward and raised his sword high, his voice sharp and accusing.

"For honor! Down with Mlociniakik!"

The group froze, tension crackling like a taut bowstring. Nosh, still astride his horse, raised his hand to signal calm. His noble coat, embroidered with the sigil of Amatland, caught what little light there was. "We are with Amatland!" he declared in a firm voice. "I am Nosh of Amatland!"

The leader of the men in black stepped closer, his expression dark and unforgiving. "Lies," he spat. "The people of Amatland do not flee like cowards, unlike the vermin of Mlociniakik."

Before Nosh could reply, the man lunged, his blade slashing at Nosh’s leg. The noble reeled in pain but was prepared. Drawing his dagger in one swift motion, he thrust it upward, piercing the man’s head. The attacker crumpled to the ground, his blood darkening the forest floor.

Chaos erupted. The remaining men in black charged, their swords clashing against those of Nosh’s companions. The forest came alive with the sounds of battle—the cries of the wounded, the metallic ring of steel, and the desperate shouts of men fighting for their lives.

When the melee finally subsided, the forest fell silent once more. The attackers lay dead, their black cloaks splayed like shadows on the ground. Of Nosh’s group, only three remained standing, bloodied and battered.

Nosh sat heavily on a fallen log, clutching his wounded leg, his face pale but resolute. His voice trembled with a mix of anger and despair. "More men defying my command... First the Christian cities of the north, now these rogues? Who are they? Why are Mlociniakik Forces here? I don't even know."

One of his men, a grizzled veteran with a gash across his brow, knelt beside him. "They bore no sigils of Mlociniakik, my lord. Perhaps...another faction, emboldened by the chaos?"

Nosh shook his head, his hand tightening into a fist. "It matters not. They are yet another threat to Amatland. May Belemis save our realm, for even I, its lord, begin to doubt I can."

The men gathered what they could from the fallen, scavenging weapons and supplies. As night descended fully, they knew they could not stay long in the forest, but the way forward seemed darker than ever—both literally and figuratively. Amatland teetered on the edge of collapse, and Nosh carried the weight of its survival on his bloodstained shoulders.

why do u keep self deleting ur posts

Latbel wrote:

why do u keep self deleting ur posts

I think he changes stuff and deletes the old post. I guess he could edit though

Bronzehamut wrote:

I think he changes stuff and deletes the old post. I guess he could edit though

yeah he probs has forgotten how to edit

Latbel wrote:

why do u keep self deleting ur posts

at first am 100% happy but then i want/need to change stuff so i delate the old one and replace it with a new one

The Princely Confederacy wrote:

at first am 100% happy but then i want/need to change stuff so i delate the old one and replace it with a new one

ok

Latbel wrote:

ok

Ok? Ok I was ok once

The Free City of Leoria wrote:

Ok? Ok I was ok once

i was in a rubber room, a rubber room full of rats

Latbel wrote:

i was in a rubber room, a rubber room full of rats

And rats make me Ok