#release soon

Allez, il était temps qu’il sorte, ce truc !

DEMAIN, MON FILM DE FIN D’ÉTUDES ! SORTIE INTERNATIONALE !

For real, it was about time to release this stuff !

The braziers hummed in the tavern, as the fire crackled and men drank to their merry. The brothel women swung and danced around the soldiers – corporals, privates, and sergeants for a night had no ranking. They were simply men, indulging in the pleasures of the world. The music was a soothing hymn played upon a harp, a light drum beat followed with it.   Adorned above the fireplace was the Kingdoms sigil: The Honorable Blue Ram

Curnalyn put one leg on the bench and his posterior on the table. He began to tell one of his famous stories; his accent was rough, much like his red head, and stout short beard; “So there I was the other day when I came into the stable. I went to the stable boy, and so I told him. ‘Give me a ram I need to ride north.’ The stable boy looked at me and said, ‘The masters said there’d be no more men traveling north.’So, I told that stable boy as I took one of his rams, ‘You can tell those masters to put their mouths right ‘ere!’,” Curnalyn chuckled, grabbing his pelvis.

The men all about the wooden table in the tavern laughed with glee and joy. Pounding their tankards down, shaking the table. They all cheered and clanked their tankards together for a round. Ale spilled across the table, as the men talked drunkenly, hugged, or punched another other across the face.

Curnalyn scrunched his mouthed- swiping his drink. He stood, treading over to the only member of the Black Estate in the tavern. His footsteps hesitant, while two men brawled he grabbed a tankard from their seat; holding two in hand. The man of the Black Estate was oddly well clothed for his homeland, not rags but smooth black linen was across his body and legs. Looking as tightly woven bandages,

“You mind for a drink, brother?” Curnalyn inquired, he strayed back as though approaching a ravenous dog.

“I don’t drink.” The man of the black estate responded, crossed armed. He was dressed in rams’ fur stitched together making a fine cloak, and blade in scabbard dangled at his side. Weaving designs of rams fighting one another, engraved deeply into the leather.

“I see you are more decorated than your brethren.” Curnalyn smiled

The man stayed silent – observing the other estates

“Have a drink with me, brother?” Curnalyn said raising his tankard. The man of the black estate just gave Curnalyn a glare. “Ahhh, right. I’ll just have one for you as well then.” Curnalyn sat down next to him. He sipped the drink he brought over for his new-found friend. “Not much of a talker are ye’– hmph, neither am I. You just need enough to drink to open up. These men aren’t all bad, some from the Yellow estate, some of the Green estate, some of the Red estate –”

“Like yourself.” The man of the Black estate responded.

“Yes, like myself.”

“You call me brother, but I am no brother to you.”

“We share barracks, we share beds, we share drinks, and we share women.” Curnalyn pointed outward, he swung another gulp. “Do not try to fool me with your diplomacy, Red Estate warrior. My estate since our kingdom has existed has shoveled the other estates shit and whores they were bored of off the streets.”  The man in black raised his voice; the tavern began to come to a halt. Women stopped dancing and seducing men, and men stopped fist fighting with one another. The fire crackles could be heard. The harp began to play slower – the winter winds whipped outside the tavern.

“Easy now brothers,” Curnalyn warned.

Some men rose to their feet with hands on their blades. “We don’ need to fight; we are all brothers within these walls, else the winters would eat us whole.”

“Shut it, Curnalyn.” One of the men that listened to his story stood the hilt of his blade in hand.  Curnalyn stood, scowling at him.

“I best hope that wasn’t towards me; pup.” Curnalyn threatened whipping his axe off his back, cracking his shoulders side to side.

“You’re good for nothing but, fucking whores, and drinking the ale. When was even the last time you killed a barbarian? Or went on an expedition?”

“Let me tell you something, ye’ son of a whore – before I cut you down in-front of our brethren. When you get good at fightin’, it becomes a myth. I go on missions with Bolvar that you don’t have the balls for!”

The two men locked eyes; the air grew dry with tension. The sound of the fire was crackling, the harp playing slowly and hilts being gripped tightly; was all that could be heard. The man laughed with glee; the whole tavern followed suite. Curnalyn gave out a drunken laugh too, as his belly danced with jolly. He walked to his brethren with open arms they hugged each-other, tight in merry.

“I am sorry Curnalyn. I don’t know what came over me.”

Curnalyn smiled, “It’s quite all right, ale is a good drink. But it does terrible things to a lightweight.”

“Wait, a wha –”

Curnalyn struck him clear across the face. The drunkard fell to the ground as Curnalyn spotted his tankard. Finishing off any remaining ale, he thought to himself, just because a loose lipped light-weight can’t hold down his ale, doesn’ mean it needs to go to waste.

Before Curnalyn could see straight enough to walk back over to the man of the Black Estate. The horn bellowed into the night air, once, then twice, then three times. All the men scrambled, the tune played over and over again. Curnalyn dropped the tankard, clattering across the floor. No, he thought to himself, he sprinted outside. With axe in hand, he saw the barbarians set ablaze the walls of the keeps.

The savages rushed in, charging towards the soldiers in arms. Fortunate enough, one of the soldiers had their wits enough to release the rams into the fray. Rams charged forward, clearing columns of the barbarians giving time to the militia force of the soldier’s; time enough to wake their brothers. Drunken men pounded through the snow, banging on doors. Curnalyn picked up a tankard before leaving the tavern; he took a giant gulp, before tossing it to the ground. He belched, and he thought to himself, Bolvar… We need Major Bolvar.

Curnalyn’s loyalties laid with Bolvar, of the White Estate. Not many members from the White Estate had come to the Crown of the World. In-fact not many at all indeed; there was the magistrate, the alchemist, Bolvar, and General Lavosh. Bolvar and Lavosh being the only two warriors of the white estate.

Bolvar breathed heavy; he was in his village once more, the land was a tundra, the houses being carved from the ice itself. The tip of the tallest mountain peaked into the clouds. War has ravaged this land. Fireballs cracked down from the sky, melting the tundra. Bolvar saw himself melting as his body began to immobilize. Bolvar could peak forward, all his vision could see now was hazy, blurred objects. He heard a faint shriek, “Father, Father, Fath –”

“Bolvar, Bolvar, Bolvar!”, Curnalyn spat forth onto Bolvars’ forehead. His breath reeked of ale and whores. Bolvar awoke with sweat upon his brow; it dripped through his long black hair and beard. He awoke breathing heavy. Bolvar’s brown eyes sat deep. His face wrinkled with the ages, looking like old leather. His teeth half rotten from time, and cracked from how he regularly spoke with in murmurs. His body built like a warrior, peak condition. Sweat dripped onto the floor.

Bolvar streaked his hands across his face. Curnalyn continued to bellow in a tipsy stutter, “Bolvar, the barbarians. They struck before morn’! We need you commander, someone to lead the men.” The bed creaked as Bolvar stood up, only trousers on. He prepared his tunic.

“My blade.” Bolvar spoke abruptly, throwing his tunic over his large frame.

“Which one?”

“Ish-nu.” With that said Curnalyn wasted no more time, hurrying to the weapon rack. He threw Bolvar his blade in scabbard. Bolvar caught his blade back handed. Then quickly tied it around his waist, securing his boots.

“Your cloak?” Curnalyn pondered.

“Don’t need it, men are dying.” Bolvar marched out of the barracks.

His brethren in arms fought all about the keep; men fell dying to the snow. Bolvar quickly drew his blade Ish-nu from its sheath. No one knew why Bolvar had named his blade this. Curnalyn named his axe “Red Curn,” after his first born. Curnalyn the II, of the Red Estate. Generally a soldier would name his preferred blade after their first-born son. Bolvar swung his blade over his head; roaring. He shoved it completely through a barbarian’s rib cage – preoccupied by one of his brethren in arms. Blood surged down the blackened blade, as Bolvar cracked the barbarian’s ribs he tore his blade downward – ripping it out of the barbarians back. Bolvar splattered the blood onto the snow – he continued his charge.

He spun, relentlessly attacking forward; he gutted all those whom wished to take his life. He spun in a circle of death; attacking brutally. Bolvar was not known for his graceful fighting style; he had in-human strength some would say. Once, he split a man in half rumor has it. Bolvar met with his warriors, directing their flanks, and commanding catapults to fire. “Spill the oil down –now!” Bolvar commanded; jabbing his blade forward. With the command given, the front of the keep was nearly, but all cut off. The rangers poured oil from the lamps down, the opening the barbarians made –engulfed in flames. The oil and flame burned as one- Bolvar grinned grimily. Curnalyn stood next to his commander, blood stained. The cold air rushed into their faces, all that was left was the band of barbarians in Serrian Keep.

“Curnalyn, tend to the others.”

“I will not leave you!”

“That was a command, Sergeant.”

“No.” Curnalyn objected. “Fuck yer command.”

A barbarian leapt at Curnalyn, Bolvar struck him dead in the nose.

“Curnalyn, I said now!” He grunted.