Ironsides Family/Armstrong/FrightDream

Another tale in the epic saga of the Hero of Democracy, Count Armstrong Ironsides.

Roleplay from Armstrong Ironsides

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Armstrong tossed and turned in his cot. The carriers, who were trailing behind the Fontan Rangers to regroup the Count with his army, were beginning to get annoyed because he kept shifting his weight. He was having a nightmare.

While flames ate through the fields, many people screamed and fled with terror. Foreign nobles were taking their prerogative as invaders to menace the land. Their violence was uninhibited.

Armstrong was alone in Cleargrape Witt, his winery near his estate. He saw a battlegroup without faces march slowly towards him. Some were grotesque soldiers, with horns out of their heads and claws for hands. Some were devilish, thin like skeletons and hunched over by the weight of their armour. There was a banging sound from their feet, inch by inch they marched.

The sight would have terrified an ordinary man to death. But Armstrong was no ordinary man. He was the Hero of the Democracy, sworn protector of Fontan and all its regions. Worse of all, the invaders were in An Najaf, the region of his command.

To his surprise, he was not armoured at all, nor was he armed. As they came closer, Armstrong sought a weapon. He found none. He worried for his bare skin against the metal of the demons. But there was no time.

He decided the best weapon he had was his empty hands, so he raised them. As he did so, he noticed that he had no hands at all, the wrists ended in stubs.

"No!" He screamed.

So he stood in a position to use his feet as weapons, but how could a man with no feet fight?

"Ahh! What am I to do? I have no way of combating these enemies. Should I use my teeth?"

His teeth vanished.

Poor Armstrong, completely invalid before the vicious horde. He was in no capacity to defend anything, this caused him to wail in lamentation.

The monsters marched closer, closer, closer. Armstrong sunk into the dirt, unable to free himself with out any hands. Unable to scream any longer, his throat had vanished too.

Just as the enemies surrounded his half buried maimed body, he was able to revive his throat and speak one last time...

"Tyranny, though I fall on this soil, what I lived for will never die! Long live Democracy! Long live Fontan! Long live....."

Armstrong fell out of his cot onto the cold ground. It was night time and the carriers had been struggling to hold him in the mobile bed for the past hour. They looked at him like he was inconveniencing them, and he looked at them as if they just dropped him to the ground on purpose.

Armstrong did not return to the cot for the rest of the night, and chose to walk on his own instead. A hard nightmare to interpret. It kept his mind occupied for the rest of the journey.

Armstrong Ironsides

Count of An Najaf