Sunday, May 07, 2006
The plains of Tleorath were unusally quiet. Under the fading light of a setting sun, the usual chirping of birds and grasshoppers was missing. Perhaps they knew about the bloodbath that was to happen. The silence was like a deep breathe before the plunge. A plunge into the deep sea of blood red carnage.
A pebble trembled.
The sound of hooves was soft at first, but grew slowly as the army approached. Soon, the thunder of hooves echoed across the plain louder than the ears could bear. Centaurs, moving like an iron clad horde towards the treeline. The murder of a centaur war-prince had moved the army into action against the treacherous Satyrs of the forest. War-prince Sepirmak of the Thunderhoof clan had led a party of negotiators in hope of quelling a border dispute between the plains centaurs and the forest Satyrs. That party was ambushed by raiders during the night, and only a swift-hooved scout managed to make it back to report the atrocity.
A week was all that was needed to mobilize every tribe and clan in the desert. The clans were on strained relations with the Satyrs, and this was the pebble that was needed to tip the already precarious scale.
The Demfist clan was the first of the great houses to be called. The clan was known for its weaponmasters and their fine armor, which outfitted close to a three quarters of the army's elite guard. Among their weaponmasters, was the young Perilos and his brother Deatlas . As sons of the clan leader, much pressure fell upon them to be as skilled as their father, in weaponmastery and diplomacy. Perilos chafed under the pressure, but but slightly older Deatlas welcomed it with open arms because he knew, that if his father were to pass on, he was to be crowned chieftain of the clan. In this knowledge, he took every challenge, every burden that headed his way. Perilos however, hated his bloodline. He yearned to be free, to explore the reaches of the world, seeking thrills and adventure. Deatlas came for the war because duty obligated him to, Perilos came just for the fun of it.
The army halted about 2 leagues away from the forest and made camp. It was to be a massacre the next day, and every centaur knew that it was to be a brutal battle.
The Satyr were a war-forged race. A normal sized Satyr stood at around 6 feet tall, as quick and agile as foxes were. Their hooved feet made running a breeze, and most of them were combat trained from tender ages.
The grieving warchief of Thunderhoof had made a calculated risk. Camp further away from the battlefield, and charge into battle with moderately weary troops, or camp at the edge of the battlefield and charge into battle fresh and ready to kill. The former choice was safer, as the Satyr were cunning enough to mount a pre-emptive strike, but the warchief would not have any of it from his advisors. Camp was to be set up, and every Centaur was to be rested. Guards were posted, and the army began to tuck in for the night, all under the watchful gaze of two camouflaged Night Satyr Scouts.
Morningstar wrote this
at around.. 2:00 AM
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