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open post;
ieros: iron (n.) from Greek "strong."
 open roleplay post for PSLs, meme continuations, AU world building, and everything in between! ⅰ. reply with your character. include a prompt. written prompts work best! ⅱ. request a character/verse/continuation in the subject line. ⅲ. have fun! unsure of where to start? here are a few of our favourite bakerstreet memes for inspiration: texts from last night morning after rainy/snow day hurt/comfort road trip insomnia rules: Ⅰ. nsfw stuff is welcome and encouraged, but please comment or PM for heavy kink discussion. Ⅱ. i am terrible at writing action scenes. this isn't really a rule, actually, just a fair warning. Ⅲ. be nice. no shaming or wanking and you get a free cookie. Ⅳ. do not comment here if i haven't played with you before, or if we haven't previously discussed starting a thread. |
I hear Clancy's in need of a knight in shining armour.
There's a soft creaking of wood as he readies his bow and urges his horse onward through the silent village. On previous journeys the small village had been bustling with life, and the people were kind enough to provide him shelter on more than one occasion. All that remains now are dilapidated dwellings, and broken fences, but curiously no corpses that he can see. No livestock. Several of the homes he can see into are filled with the neglected belongings of the former occupants. Decomposing food. It's as though every living soul vanished into thin air, taking with them only the clothes on their backs.
Behind the village, a dense forest stretches out as far as the eye can see. The sounds of something — perhaps someones — within it finally reach his ears, causing him to draw fully upright in the saddle and focus his attention on the trees. The source of his animals' unease is still a fair distance away but heading in his direction, easily discernible now in the eerie silence of this place.
To his horse's relief, he dismounts and sends him away with an assertive pat to the beast's neck. With his sheathed sword at his back and bow in hand, Tristan pulls his heavy cloak forward to help conceal the glint of his armour, before taking up a defensible position at the corner of a building, eyes trained on the woods and preparing for what approaches.
most certainly, pls help oh knightly knight
Which, all things considered, isn't really that fast. He was never a sprinter, not anyone known for their athletic prowess, but he surprised himself how quickly he could move when in a state of sheer panic and adrenaline. He knew he'd be caught again if he lingered, if he stopped to catch his breath for even a moment, so he had to keep running. Even when his legs were straining with the effort, even when he felt dizzy from blood loss and the pain was excrutiating, he had to keep going. He couldn't risk even a second.
It must've been hours, several long hours, at the very least. He'd seen the sun peeking out behind the clouds when he'd escaped, and it was starting to set by now. He must've covered some considerable distance since then - but even that didn't seem like far away enough, and he kept pushing himself past his limits, his left hand clenched between his right arm and side haphazardly tied off with torn scraps of fabric, hair and clothes drenched despite it not having rained yet in the day.
Reaching the village after so long is like a Godsend. He can see the buildings from between the trees, and it's that relief that propels him to keep going - he's finally found a safe haven, someplace he can rest and find help, and hopefully some information in regards to a particular family. But his hopes are dashed when he stumbles out of the woods, just barely keeping on his feet, and there's not a single person to be found. There's no one out walking in the streets, no sound of a small but busy bustling village, no horses or cattle or sheep chattering amongst themselves. In that moment, he swears he feels his heart stop. After so long, after finally escaping, he's still on his own.
Not entirely alone, as only seconds after the devastating realization hits him, there's noise coming from the trees just behind him. It's a familiar growling sound, monstrous and dreadful, and the panicked feeling gets his feet moving again as he hurries further out into the empty village to get away from it. Sure enough, the hideous creature drags itself out from the woods after him, howling loud and menacing as it lurches and lumbers forward. It's soon joined by a second, and a third beast behind even that, gruesome tall humanoid beings covered in an inky black mass and smelling like rotten flesh. They have no faces - no eyes to see or ears to hear, but somehow they still know where he is, long clawed arms swinging madly and wide fanged mouths waiting to dig into soft human flesh.
Clancy's more than familiar with them. They're mindless, easy to take out if one was properly armed, but that's where his problem lies. He can only drag his own feet and stumble over himself as he tries to get away, eventually losing his footing and tripping to land heavily on his side on the ground. The monsters still approach, and the only thing he can do is awkwardly crawl forward, his one hand still pressed against his chest making it difficult. But eventually he can reach a pile of old, dusty bricks near an equally old and dusty well, and with his good hand he picks one up and braces himself against the well, brave but weary and frightened, and not just from the approaching monstrosities.
He's come this far. He's survived so much. But if this was how he was going to go down, then like Hell he's going down without a fight.
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They appear vaguely human in shape, flayed, blackened and rotten yet somehow still animated. He's experienced a lifetime of the horrors of warfare, the disturbing manmade instruments of torture, but the sight before him is one beyond imagining, something from the dark recesses of a nightmare. And as ungainly as their shambling gaits are they're closing in fast on the prone stranger, who appears to be unarmed and in a terrible state. The way he's cradling his hand and the profuse amount of blood don't bode well. Swallowing his fear, Tristan steadies his hands and quickly adjusts his aim.
The first arrow that strikes the head of one of the creatures easily penetrates the black mass covering it. But it's largely ineffective; the monstrosity staggers with an enraged howl and its path toward the man sheltering against the well is unchanged. Several additional well-placed arrows finally cause it to lose its footing, the dagger-like claws flailing wildly as it collapses. It affords Tristan the opportunity to focus on the remaining pair.
Forgoing all attempts at stealth now, he positions himself between the towering humanoids and their target, briefly cutting a sharp look toward the man as if to warn, 'Stay out of the way.' With his bow slung across his back he reaches instead for his sword, revealing an elegant, curved blade very unlike those commonly carried by Roman calvary.
Each sweeping arc of his sword deprives the creatures of their limbs — severed bits of arms and legs soon litter the ground amid puddles of foul-smelling fluids. The creature downed with arrows manages to surprise him with one final, desperate lunge, and its jaws close on his forearm, the thick armour of his vambrace fortunately withstanding the impact. With his customary battle-tested composure, he kicks the snarling thing off of himself and summarily decapitates each creature in turn, and remains watching them for several long moments while he catches his breath. Once he's reasonably satisfied the attack is over, he turns and regards the injured man with a wary look.
"Are others following you?" he asks in a low voice. His words are heavily accented, spoken with the careful enunciation of someone navigating a language not native to them. A rough shake dislodges the worst of the mess still clinging to his sword, and he keeps it in hand as he steps closer to the man, dropping into a crouch to visually assess the extent of his injuries. "What has been done to you?" He indicates the poorly bandaged hand with a nod of his chin.
no subject
It's hard to tear his eyes away from the approaching monsters, but he manages a glance in the direction the arrows came from, and notices the man now hurrying towards him. A part of him panics at first - more of a gut reaction to an armed man charging towards him by now - but when it becomes apparent that he's not the intended target, the panic becomes a mix of relief and confusion. The brief look they sure is understanding at least, as Clancy knows better (and is currently incapable of,) to be getting in the way of anything now.
Hell, he's not sure if he can even stand up right now. Clancy's pretty sure he'll pass out if he tries.
All he can do instead is just watch the scene unfold before him. The stranger is plenty skilled, almost as though the monstrous creatures are no match for him at all and merely an annoyance. And the blade used, far different from those he'd been more accustomed to, indicated a foreigner. He couldn't tell the sword's origin from first glance, but all things considered, it's hardly of any importance. He's fending off the beasts, and he's doing so with impeccable speed and strength, so it's all he can do to just be grateful for the aid.
Belatedly, he realizes that one of the creatures is lunging towards the stranger while he's not immediately paying attention. He leans forward, tries to shout a warning, but his voice is hoarse and broken from overuse and he manages little more than a cracked whisper of an attempt. A brief feeling of dread overcomes him, worried about what he would do if the only person stepping in to help was suddenly taken out and killed anyway, but the stranger gets the upper hand again soon enough and his fears are unfounded. It isn't much longer after that for all three of the monsters to be slain, massive rotting pieces of warped and decaying flesh spread about, no longer a threat.
The stranger approaches him, and Clancy's quick to recoil back against the well behind him, simply out of instinct. He hasn't exactly known many friendly faces lately, so even though someone had stepped in to protect him and fend off the creatures, it still doesn't mean he's immediately trustworthy. It was always better to keep his defenses up, weak as they were. He shakes his head at the first question - there's no more of them that he could hear, or smell, so they were safe for the time being at least.
"... I--" Clancy's voice breaks, and it's easier to just show the stranger what had happened, rather than explain it. Hesitantly, he brings his left hand out from against his side, the poor attempt at a bandage revealing some extent of the damage done. It's soaked in his own blood, and he's shivering and dizzy from the loss of it. More importantly, it appears as though several of his fingers are missing, as only his thumb and index finger remain and the other three seem cut off just past his knuckles. It's far from the only injury hidden beneath his clothes, but it's the most pressing one. "I-It ... it was a game ... he made us-- we had to play, no choice ..."
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"It seems you lost," he dryly remarks, standing after a moment. There's far more to the story, he's sure, but that's not important right now. "You must clean it."
He's witnessed even the hardiest soldiers laid low by festering wounds, injuries that might have been survived had they been properly tended to in time. Experience hasn't been a kind teacher but he's learned its lessons well. Though it may already be too late for this man, he feels compelled to at least try to help; it's almost a guaranteed death sentence otherwise, this far out with no other pockets of humanity for miles.
A piercing whistle calls his horse — a strongly built, compact dapple grey Andalusian, laden with travelling supplies — from where he'd sheltered during the fight. He seems much calmer now, though he gives the remains of the creatures a wide berth on his way to his master, who rewards him by stroking his neck and murmuring words too quiet to make out. Then Tristan speaks normally.
"You'll watch him, enh?" Whether he's addressing his horse or the man is unclear, but the horse seems to answer with a low sound and remains standing by the stranger as Tristan sets off to search one of the nearby abandoned homes. He reappears a minute later carrying a dusty basin, which he rinses out and fills from the stream that winds through part of the village. It's set before the man, along with some linen cloths from the home and soap from his own saddlebag. He remains crouched there, watching the man with an expectant look.
"I can do it for you," he offers, having noticed the shivering, and anticipating that the pain might exhaust whatever strength the man has left. "Though you won't like it. But it must be done."
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"... a-actually," he adds, though he doesn't sound at all proud of it, "I ... I-I won."
If anything, it's a reminder of what he needs to do next, once he's in the proper state of health to do so. But it's a thought he keeps to himself for now.
The sound of that whistle is loud and piercing enough that he winces, almost reaching with his good hand to cover his ear, but it's over quick enough and the stranger is standing up to ... retreat, Clancy assumes. It's not like he could blame the man, because he knew just how much of a lost cause he must seem. Trembling, bleeding, missing fingers, eyes wide and stricken with fear - why would anyone go out of their way to help a dying man with no hope?
He almost doesn't catch what the man says ... was he asking him to keep an eye on the horse? Was he supposed to get up and chase after it if the horse decided to make a break for it?
"Uh ..." It didn't make much sense to him, and the stranger was already leaving and out of earshot. "... s-sure."
Clancy does try his best. At least the horse doesn't appear to be the flighty type after all, and the man returns soon enough with the supplies he was looking for. True, his hand did need some proper cleaning. He didn't have much of a chance to do it himself in the panicked chaos of his escape, only doing what he could with the meager materials he could scrap and instead focusing his energy on getting as far away as possible. But now came the time to actually tend to it, and while he wasn't looking forward to it, surely he wouldn't have to rely on someone else for it. Right?
"I-- I can ... I can do it," Clancy doesn't sound entirely confident about it, but he does reach for one of the cloths with his good hand, despite it shaking as much as it is. The other man was kind enough to offer, and it had been some time since Clancy had known any such kindness, but any man of the knightly sort such as him didn't need to waste time with him. "... I-I think-- I think I can do it ..."
no subject
Over the course of several more trips into the abandoned homes, he accumulates some dusty but serviceable bedding, double layers of clothing that he estimates will fit the other man well enough, and miscellaneous other supplies in preparation for spending the night where they were. The items are neatly arranged within their impromptu campsite.
All that's left is perhaps seeing to a fire and hunting to supplement his dried rations, but an uneasy glance toward the woods leaves him undecided on the matter. They may be too much of an unnecessary risk right now.
But then, if more of those things came during the night regardless, he doesn't relish the thought of trying to fight them in the pitch darkness... Some heated water would also be needed to make a poultice. He compromises by building a small fire that can be fed or easily stamped out as needed, which his horse seems to take as a signal to finally relax and wanders away to start grazing nearby.
After picking some comfrey from the overgrown fields that are encroaching on the village, he takes a seat on the ground near his new companion and checks on his progress.
"Who plays such games?" he asks as he begins carefully stripping the plants of their leaves. "Tell me what happened."
His gaze strays to the remains of the creatures for a moment before returning to the man, who despite his terrible state hasn't been cast off as a lost cause yet; anyone with the fortitude to fight till their last breath, as this man had been willing to, is someone Tristan can respect. Besides which, if laws have been broken — and the hellish abominations against nature certainly seem to imply something significant is happening that the Romans may not approve of — it's likely worth knowing about, even if the knowledge will go no further than his own commander. Arthur and his fellow knights would probably take him at his word, but who else would believe such an inconceivable story without seeing the monsters for themselves?