Post by alyssa on Sept 18, 2011 0:36:14 GMT -5
It was morning when the army arrived. A hundred or more men, dressed in identical armor, chainmail and leather. They were invariably strong and surprisingly handsome for their roles as warriors. The implication was that they were hand-picked. Behind them, a giant gold throne, carried on the shoulders of a dozen men. A shadowy figure on the throne watched them with a sinister smile.
They stormed Wistvale, tearing the city apart, burning this and breaking that. They encountered some resistance, but slew all who opposed them. As the throne advanced through the city, a slender arm wound point out, at this man, or that one, and they would be captured and bound. This continued for hours. The Guard was useless. The people panicked and fled. As the city burned, the remaining townspeople locked themselves in their homes. The throne was set down, finally, at nightfall in the city square. The figure stood, and her voice rang out, loud and strong.
I know he's here! Where is he?! Where is my Heathen?
WHERE IS MY GRAYELL?!
(Welcome back, Gray. Don't respond to this seriously, I'm sure as hell not going to GM it.)
They stormed Wistvale, tearing the city apart, burning this and breaking that. They encountered some resistance, but slew all who opposed them. As the throne advanced through the city, a slender arm wound point out, at this man, or that one, and they would be captured and bound. This continued for hours. The Guard was useless. The people panicked and fled. As the city burned, the remaining townspeople locked themselves in their homes. The throne was set down, finally, at nightfall in the city square. The figure stood, and her voice rang out, loud and strong.
I know he's here! Where is he?! Where is my Heathen?
WHERE IS MY GRAYELL?!
(Welcome back, Gray. Don't respond to this seriously, I'm sure as hell not going to GM it.)
