It would seem old habits DO die hard!
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It would seem old habits DO die hard!
Those of you who know anything about my history in this hobby will know that I have an awful habit of producing elaborate "backstories" explaining various cultural elements of the projects I'm part of, and it would seem that this habit endures. For some insane reason I started this at about midnight and it now being nearly 2.30 i really don't have the energy to proof-read, but if anyone would like to read it and give feedback that'd be very much appreciated.
This story covers the collapse of Enthdover and how the church came to lead the lands which are now known as Castrum Nazarene.
This story covers the collapse of Enthdover and how the church came to lead the lands which are now known as Castrum Nazarene.
Faith's Review and Expectation
In the dark days following the collapse of Enthdover the lands which had been ruled by the King of that realm were thrown into turmoil and chaos. Roving bands of vagrants terrorised the mortified settlements which dotted the sparsely populated northern regions of the enclave, home after home was reduced to ash and ruin as the population fled southwards lest death over take them all. The rich lowland settlements, while still exceptionally vulnerable to sustained attack, were at least well defended enough to resist mere bandits. It was this thought that led many of the violent wanderers to rally to the banner of Jorvik; a ragged triangular standard belonging to a brutal tribe who occupied the lawless northern borderlands.
It was upon a bleak spring night when the wind howled amongst the hills that the deplorable men of the wilds swore to put aside their differences for a time and, united beneath one banner, march south to overthrow the settlements who still defied them. The plan was simple; travel south through the mountain valleys and spill forth in wrath upon a small monastic community on the northern banks of the River Magdalene before crossing the bridge that stood there and thus enter the rich southern plains. All previous raids had involved skirting the western shores of Lake Epiphany, but this small wooden crossing of the river offered a rare chance for a surprise attack which would fall upon the huddled settlements of the south and cast them down in ruin.
So it was that on the 7th day of April some 1200 wild men, each armed with a great axe or blackened bow of yew, marched under the cover of the night sky southwards through the last foothills of the great northern mountains. Behind and above them great clouds of black billowed, obliterating the stars from the sky and sending out low rumbles of the thunder as if some great drum marked time with the footfall of the men. One such rumble entered into the valley of the River Magdalene where it shook the windows of the small monastery of St Benedict and awoke the Abbot with a start; a dream had troubled him in his sleep and now it clawed still at his waking-mind. Sitting up and cupping his hands to his clammy and pale face Dominic blinked repeatedly, but the image of St Thomas which had filled his dream remained imprinted in his mind even now. An army would soon be upon them, St Thomas had warned, but only a dream. And yet, Abbot Dominic knew in his heart that it had not been simply a dream, and rising he looked through the leaded panes of his small and sparsely furnished cell. Black clouds frowned menacingly over the edges of the valley and the smooth slopes which led from the monastery towards the hills were now thick with dread where so recently Dominic had walked with such joy in the warm spring sunshine. He knew then that doom was indeed closing in upon them.
The rumbles of thunder continued intermittently, but other than that the land around St Benedict’s was much like it had been for countless nights before. The wind swept across the seas of tall grass which covered the valley slopes and the river slid gently beneath the planks of the bridge on its winding course down to the lake some miles to the west, the simple low stone hall where the monks lived and an assortment of other smaller homesteads lay silent with their windows all darkened as the occupants slept. But suddenly, as if the land were also shaken from some dream, a frantic clangour erupted into the night. The Sanctus bell of the monastery rang out into the darkness, but no calm call to prayer was this, the clapper swung frantically as the deafening alarm rang out into the darkness and lights sprung up as candles were lit and doors and windows were thrown open in alarm.
The people of the small settlement gathered around the monastery to learn what events had provoked such panic; a commotion such as this had not troubled the lives of the people of the town in all the long years since the first stones of the St Benedict’s were laid. Before long the Abbot emerged from the low archway which served as the entrance to the monastery, dressed in his simple black robes, and stood before the assembled crowd; there he told them of his dream. He spoke swiftly in English and the Latin-speaking residents slowly began to understand what he was explaining to them; although Dominic did speak Latin he and his Brothers reserved it for acts of worship and spoke often in the English of their counterparts in Nova England. The assembled crowd did not at first believe all that Dominic said, they questioned his dream and some men even laughed, but even as they spoke a scream went up from amongst them and all eyes turned to the crest of the valley where a long line of flaming torches had begun to appear.
At once panic gripped many of the people and husbands sent their wives home to gather what possessions they may and to rouse the children from their sleep. It seemed that all would flee when Father Dominic announced to those who remained that he and all his Brothers who would follow him still would stand and fight, for he knew that the enemy who approached now didn’t simply desire to take their small settlement but in fact sought the destruction of their entire way of life on the far banks of the river. Men, gripped by their terror as the torches came into sharper focus in the darkening sky less than five miles hence, simply ran back to their home to gather what they could and soon the bridge was awash with refugees fleeing onto the plains on the south side of the river. Father Dominic was left alone before the archway as a great roll of thunder drowned out the continued clangour of the Sanctus bell, taking a last deep breath he turned and walked back into his hall.
Blinking slightly to get used to the bright candle light which flooded the hall Father Dominic was surprised to see all seventy monks of the Order dressed in the plain black robes and wielding what weapons there were to be had. Some simply had clubs, others hefted long curved blades which acted as scythes for wheat, some even held small hunting bows, but none had the great weapons of war which were soon to be arrayed against them. Amongst the amassed monks one man caught Dominic’s eye; one man who stopped with a great hunched back and his face worn by the cares of many years. “Brother John, why do you not go? The bridge is yet clear and you could go with the people and be safe, for a time at least” Dominic asked pleadingly, but Brother John replied simply “Did we not vow to live and die amongst one another to the glory of Christ our Saviour? The first stage of this vow I have completed already, perhaps now I go forward to undertake the second. Perhaps that will be the easier.” A wry smile spread across the old man’s face and the Abbot let out a laugh; perhaps if they had heard this the wild men who were by now streaming into the valley might have felt a pang of doubt, for none had laughed at their approach before.
“Well, my Brothers, if all here are resolved that for better or for worse we shall stand here this day as we have for so many long years, then so it shall be. Were I stood now on the edge of oblivion, I should not tremble, for who could fear to step into the abyss when arrayed amongst all those for whom they care the most?”
With that, and in pairs as went the animals of Noah to their deliverance, the monks departed the monastery and made their way towards the bridge. By now the last of the few hundred residents had crossed and were fleeing with panic into the lands beyond, and so the monks stood quite alone as they took up their positions of defence. A small sloping hump marked the site of the bridge and it was upon this elevation of no more than 5ft that the group assembled; small woven wooden hurdles which were normally used for penning-in sheep had been bought to act as shields and soon a small huddle blocked the entrance to the bridge.
By now the foremost ranks of the enemy were approaching the outskirts of the settlements and the storm which had so long threatened suddenly opened and rain hammered down on wild man and monk alike. But too late to save the furthest homesteads which had torches thrust into their dry thatch and were soon ablaze; the light of the fire glittered off the cold iron of the axes and swords which glistened and writhed like some great metallic sneak as the ranks continued to advance towards the river. Before long flames were leaping high into the air and smoke curled amongst the dark raindrops which came down ever heavier; the monk’s robes dripped as they waited in silence as the din of the rain surrounded them and the roars of their foes came into hearing. Silent prayers rose to Heaven as the small group of few more than 70 men looked on at the hundreds of advancing torches; perhaps some wept as fire erupted amongst the rafters of their home in God’s house, but no tears showed amongst the heavy rain.
As the thatch of St Benedict’s roared and crackled beneath the agony of the flames the light of the fire fell for the first time upon the wild men; great brutes they appeared to the monks, dressed in little more than rags with great unkempt beards that swung to and fro as the heathens scoured the land the land in search of valuables and hacked wantonly at windows and doors with their great iron blades. But as the fire upon the monastery raged so its light fell upon the monks for the first time and their enemies became aware of them. As great snarling dogs bait a bear so the wild men surrounded the small band of monks, looking lustfully at the silver crosses which hung about their necks and laughing hoarsely at the small weapons they possessed. Dominic and his Brothers still made no sign and simply stood, each tall and proud in the face of their doom, and did not quake in their defence of the bridge and the innocents beyond.
After a few moments of sizing-up their foe one wild man came at the front rank of monks with a howl and so his companions followed him and soon a great press of foes fell upon the monks as the sea falls upon a rock. The front rank of Dominic’s Brothers braces their improvised shields and threw back the first press but soon axes fell upon them and several of the wooden shields were cast asunder in splinters, but still their line held. The monks struck no blow unless an arm reached inside the perimeter of their shield wall, and then with the strength of months spent tending the nearby fields some scythe or hoe would fall upon the assailant and he would recoil with a deep wound but alive still for the monks would not kill another man.
By now several hundred wild men were pressing against the host of St Benedict and they were steadily being forced back up the short slope towards the bridge; where Dominic now stood with Brother John towards the back of their host he was but a few feet from the drop into the river which flanked the planks of the bridge. It was from this vantage point that Dominic saw his companions begin to fall to their foes, several already lay dead beneath the trampling feat of the screaming ragged enemies; their simple black robes drenched in blood and the hammering rain. And yet the rain clouds were high up and beneath them the sky began to lighten as dawn approached; heartened by the sight Dominic began to yell, “St Thomas! St Thomas!”, others took up the cry and the monks pushed forward once more. It seemed strange to the monks that dawn should come as it seemed that all about them was darkness, but nevertheless light began to creep into the dark sky.
“Brother John, why do you not take up the call and welcome the dawn though perhaps it be our last?” Dominic looked to his right as he asked the question but to his surprise his eyes didn’t fall upon the hunched old man whom he knew so well, rather there was only emptiness and looking down he saw that an arrow had pierced his friend who now lay at his feet. Though the foul arrow protruded from his chest and all life had left him Brother John’s face showed only peace; Dominic crouched down to close his friend’s eyes and, after muttering a quiet blessing, he stood once more. Several other arrows shot wildly into the air and thudded into the earth else into the water beyond and no others fell to them. In the faint morning light the rain was continuing to hammer down and more and more of Dominic's companions were being cut down by the cruel blades of their enemy, the shouts of intercession still went up to St Thomas sporadically but no Heavenly host came to them and it seemed that it would only be a matter of time before all would perish both upon the slope before the bridge and in the lands beyond.
Crouching once more Dominic picked up a long staff and removed a velvet wrapping from one end, the opposite end he then forced into the rain softened earth at his feet. And lo! A banner unfurled upon the staff and streamed in the stormy winds; upon it rode the glimmer white Lamb of God crowned in shining gold and about him shone five scarlet stars representing the wounds of Christ. Upon this last desperate stand the banner of the Order had been unfurled and so now Dominic hefted the great scythe which he had bought with him and, with one last glance at his friend laying nearby, he let out a new call; “Death! Death take us all!” And with that he plunged into the fray. By now nearly half his companions lay dead about him and it seemed that all must follow when suddenly a great cry went up from the rear ranks of their enemy.
The heavy rain had hammered down upon the highlands beyond the valley long before any torch had been seen by the settlers around the monastery, and by the time the rebels had begun their descent towards the river they were trudging through a steadily growing torrent of water. The heavy footfall on the increasingly wet sloping ground had loosened the earth upon which the enemy marched, and only grass roots were there to hold the slopes together. Even as Dominic had given his last desperate cry heralding death the last of his foes had only just reached the base of the valley, and then a great rumble had been heard from high above as of many horses approaching. But there were no horses and no men came unheeded to the aid of the monks.
The weakened earth had begun to slip as the rain continued to pummel it and soon a great slip of earth was moving down the valley and picking up speed. A vast landslide had begun and now swept down the steep slopes and carried before it many rocks which had been submerged and this great wave fell upon the rear ranks of the wild men buried threw them down. The slide crashed through the settlement and hurled down all but the sturdiest of buildings and in amongst the debris the bodies of hundreds of the enemy were swept forwards. This great wave stormed towards the river with terrifying speed and none could outrun nor withstand it and scarcely could a yell escape from those who stood before the onslaught before they were knocked from their feet and buried alive.
So the land about St Benedict’s was swept clean by the force of the earth, the great wave hurled dust high into the air before thundering into the river with a dreadful splash which sent spray high into the air. Upon their small mound Dominic and his companions simply saw their foes fall like dominoes as if tripped from behind and then being swept around the base of the small slopes and so into the water. Those monks who stood towards the bottom of the slope edged back rapidly while resisting the panic-stricken advance of their remaining foes and so it was that the front rank of Dominic’s companions found themselves stood with soil around their ankles facing over a long and empty plain. Some enemies still groaned on the surface of the slip, but none now stood to defy Dominic as he fell to his knees and praised the Lord for their divine deliverance.
In the days that followed the news of the great victory at the bridge spread across the south of the land, and everywhere the word of the might and power of the Christian God went also. The monks of St Benedict’s restored their home and that of their neighbours and many flocked to live in that blesséd valley, for it was said that to live there was to inhabit a great Fortress of Christ, known forever to the Latin speaking people of that land as “Castrum Nazarene”.
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Re: It would seem old habits DO die hard!
Not too many mistakes, and it seems you managed to write it quicker than the average university assignment
S'really good! We've missed your elaborate backstorying during your hiatuses
S'really good! We've missed your elaborate backstorying during your hiatuses
Re: It would seem old habits DO die hard!
It was an entertaining read. There are a few spots where it's obvious you wrote it while it was very late, but those can be cleaned up with a simple edit.
I enjoyed it. It's an enviable quality, being able to write like that. It makes me feel like I should strive to do the same in Uantir, though I'm pretty distractible and probably won’t get around to it. Bravo.
I enjoyed it. It's an enviable quality, being able to write like that. It makes me feel like I should strive to do the same in Uantir, though I'm pretty distractible and probably won’t get around to it. Bravo.
His Incomparable Highness,
His Matchless Grace,
His Majestic Honor,
His Eminent Splendor,
His Chivalrous Eminence,
The Rook
Lord Protector of Uantir
His Matchless Grace,
His Majestic Honor,
His Eminent Splendor,
His Chivalrous Eminence,
The Rook
Lord Protector of Uantir
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Re: It would seem old habits DO die hard!
Thank you for the kind words I will proof read it shortly. I'm concious that my style of writing is slightly old fashioned and as such doesn't scan particularly well; my college lecturer once described my writing as "Victorian"!
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Re: It would seem old habits DO die hard!
You should consider that a compliment for it adds flavour to your writings.Alfred Dunholm wrote:I'm concious that my style of writing is slightly old fashioned and as such doesn't scan particularly well; my college lecturer once described my writing as "Victorian"!
Harald Freyjugjöf the Generous Giver of the House of the Descendants of Freyja
High King of Stormark
Sovereign Lord on all Continents
High King of Stormark
Sovereign Lord on all Continents
Re: It would seem old habits DO die hard!
Where's Max, he loves all things Wiki.
So on the Uantir forums, for a while my friend Derek (who's a maniac, but our maniac) who is your typical dead beat theatre college kid used to post. He loves to write comics and plays and shows and such. We set up a place where people could post their own fiction (or non-fiction if they were into that kind of thing) call the Library. It's also where book reviews go when people want to promote their favorite reads.
I wonder if there's a way to create something akin to that on the Wiki, a page that could be a sort of center point for Micronational literary work, such as brilliantly illustrated histories such as this one. Perhaps there already is.
Max? If only I could @Max him like I can on social networking sites.
So on the Uantir forums, for a while my friend Derek (who's a maniac, but our maniac) who is your typical dead beat theatre college kid used to post. He loves to write comics and plays and shows and such. We set up a place where people could post their own fiction (or non-fiction if they were into that kind of thing) call the Library. It's also where book reviews go when people want to promote their favorite reads.
I wonder if there's a way to create something akin to that on the Wiki, a page that could be a sort of center point for Micronational literary work, such as brilliantly illustrated histories such as this one. Perhaps there already is.
Max? If only I could @Max him like I can on social networking sites.
His Incomparable Highness,
His Matchless Grace,
His Majestic Honor,
His Eminent Splendor,
His Chivalrous Eminence,
The Rook
Lord Protector of Uantir
His Matchless Grace,
His Majestic Honor,
His Eminent Splendor,
His Chivalrous Eminence,
The Rook
Lord Protector of Uantir
Re: It would seem old habits DO die hard!
Am I needed?
Re: It would seem old habits DO die hard!
Yes! Does the Wiki have a place to put up histories like this up? Like a collection of literary miconationl stories?
His Incomparable Highness,
His Matchless Grace,
His Majestic Honor,
His Eminent Splendor,
His Chivalrous Eminence,
The Rook
Lord Protector of Uantir
His Matchless Grace,
His Majestic Honor,
His Eminent Splendor,
His Chivalrous Eminence,
The Rook
Lord Protector of Uantir
Re: It would seem old habits DO die hard!
It can do!
Excuse me whilst I recover from the shock of somebody remembering MicrasWiki exists!
Excuse me whilst I recover from the shock of somebody remembering MicrasWiki exists!
Re: It would seem old habits DO die hard!
I like the Wiki, I just don't have time to write any more than I do with this Composition and Business Writing course I'm in. Once I pick up a math class I'll probably get back to writing, like I was with the Primer.
His Incomparable Highness,
His Matchless Grace,
His Majestic Honor,
His Eminent Splendor,
His Chivalrous Eminence,
The Rook
Lord Protector of Uantir
His Matchless Grace,
His Majestic Honor,
His Eminent Splendor,
His Chivalrous Eminence,
The Rook
Lord Protector of Uantir
- Guido Zambelis
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Re: It would seem old habits DO die hard!
I've created a new "namespace" for you, so instead of confusing fiction with factual articles you can distinguish them. So, to add a fiction work, preface the title with "Library:", like this page: http://micras.org/wiki/index.php?title=Library:Test
Re: It would seem old habits DO die hard!
Cool, now I need to write stuff to use it.
His Incomparable Highness,
His Matchless Grace,
His Majestic Honor,
His Eminent Splendor,
His Chivalrous Eminence,
The Rook
Lord Protector of Uantir
His Matchless Grace,
His Majestic Honor,
His Eminent Splendor,
His Chivalrous Eminence,
The Rook
Lord Protector of Uantir
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- FMS Staff
- Posts: 21549
- Joined: Sun Jun 24, 2007 7:37 pm
- Location: Cherry Trees, Craitland
- Contact:
Re: It would seem old habits DO die hard!
I've been on it non-stop the past two weeks editingMaximos wrote:Excuse me whilst I recover from the shock of somebody remembering MicrasWiki exists!