Briarwood Family/Gwendolyn/The Slaughter

Roleplay from Gwendolyn Briarwood

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Gwendolyn: The Slaughter (PT 1)

Through the obsidian shroud of night, Lady Gwendolyn led the Blackshields across the bridge, her countenance devoid of the worry that was etched on the faces behind her. The Sallowtown Spearmen followed her, their unease cloaked by the darkness. The region of Garuck Udor lay under the shroud of night, an unsettling quiet reigning over the land, save for the distant thundering that rolled through the air like a premonition.

Advance," Gwendolyn commanded in a voice devoid of intonation, her flat gaze fixed on the darkness ahead. The soldiers moved in response, following her lead with obedient precision, the metal elk masks of the Blackshields casting eerie shadows as they stepped in unison across the bridge's worn stones.

To Gwendolyn's side stood Captain Elvira, her unease manifest in shaky words. "None can see aught in this darkness," Elvira murmured, her grip on her spear a white-knuckled testament to her apprehension. "Perhaps we should wait for dawn."

Gwendolyn's response was silence. She raised her hand, a gesture that halted her troops. The quiet night seemed to amplify the disquiet etching across the faces of the Sallowtown Spearmen, their eyes flickering with growing worry and fear. In contrast, the Blackshields stood resolute, their metal elk masks giving nothing away.

A distant rumbling grew louder, the sound of hooves thundering through the black expanse. Stillness hung in the air, broken only by the intensifying anticipation. Gwendolyn's orders sliced through the silence, sharp as a blade. "Ready. They come."

Abruptly, the air shattered, releasing monstrous screams that heralded a malevolent surge. As one, Gwendolyn and her unit charged into the abyss. A cacophonous clash ensued as men and beasts collided in a fury of violence.

In the chaos, Her movements were swift, precise, an intricate dance between life and death. But the sheer number of the creatures forced her to a defensive stance, her blade parrying blows, her body twisting away from claws that sought her life. The Blackshields bore the brunt, crushed by colossal beasts, while the spearmen fell before rending claws. Stumbling back Gwendolyn collided with Elvira. A retreat urged Elvira's nervousness to transform into screams. She lunged at a beast that swiped its claw in turn, an arm severed. Her agony echoing in the night, Elvira stumbled into Gwendolyn, who received a jarring blow to the chest in return.

The world slowed as Gwendolyn fell, a rib fracturing, consciousness waning. The battlefield was painted in red and darkness, the clashing of metal and beastly fury a symphony of violence, soldiers around her falling to shadows. Gwendolyn's ribs protested as she fell, coughing against the pain. She rolled, avoiding the weight of the creature's stamping foot, and then with a fluid motion, she rose into a crouch, her blade in hand.

Warhorns sounded in the distance, a clarion call to retreat. The Sallowtown Spearmen faltered, carrying an unconscious Elvira to safety. Two Blackshields pulled her back, their determination mingling with desperation. "Retreat, Lady Gwendolyn," one urged, his voice tense.

She shook her head, her gaze unyielding beneath her golden elk skull mask. The mask was wrenched from her face, and a scream pierced the air as the other Blackshield met his doom. Gwendolyn's stance remained unbroken as her eyes locked onto the towering creature leading the onslaught, its primal might unmatched threw the fallen man to the side.

Then, a forceful shove, and Gwendolyn tumbled onto the bridge, her gaze lifting to lock onto a towering beast.

The Blackshield who pushed her, consumed by vengeance, charged but was seized by the head by the beast, he slashed at its torso in futile effort as it seemed to snort in annoyance. The beast crushed the man's head, blood splattering from his hand to the ground as the Blackshield fell limp. Lifeless.

A fire ignited by the fallen torches, swallowed the dry grass, forming a barrier that separated Gwendolyn from the horde. Amidst the inferno, she found herself alone with a tall beast, its tribal tattoos marking it as a chiefling, the eldest son of the pack's leader. Flames danced in her sapphire eyes as her blade's silver light shone brighter.

Remembering the words of the Helical, Gwendolyn's lips moved eerily, her voice devoid of emotion. "Just... one... beast." Her eyes flickered with a faint glint as if reflecting some hidden purpose With an almost mechanical grace, she rose from her fallen position, the edges of her cloak trailing through the dust, gore and embers. There was no hesitation, no flicker of doubt. She stepped forward, into the path of the chiefling and whispered, "Your end beckons."

Roleplay from Gwendolyn Briarwood

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Gwendolyn: The Slaughter (PT 2)

In the throes of the raging inferno, Gwendolyn stood as an immovable sentinel, her blade gleaming in the flickering flames. The fire's crackling roar masked the distant growls of the remaining horde, and in this newfound isolation, she prepared to face the chiefling.

A moment's pause, and then Gwendolyn exhaled, releasing tension with her breath. The blade held before her formed a barrier against the impending assault. Her eyelids lowered as if to close the world out, to focus solely on the dance that was about to unfold.

And then it began. The chiefling surged forward, its monstrous bulk a force to be reckoned with. Gwendolyn's eyes snapped open, her form coiled with readiness. She sidestepped with the grace of a dancer, evading the savage arc of the chiefling's swing. Swiftly, she moved past the creature, spinning on her heel like a whirlwind, her sword driven into its chest with unerring accuracy.

A roar erupted from the beast's maw, its agony echoing through the night. The chiefling spun in retaliation, its massive frame nearly unbalancing Gwendolyn. She reacted with a practised withdrawal, her blade cleaving free from the creature's flesh.

Rolling back with a sinuous grace, Gwendolyn distanced herself from the chiefling's crushing hooves. Her body's litheness seemed almost ethereal as it contorted to avoid the brute force of the chiefling's strikes.

Yet her actions held a calculated mockery, a dance of defiance. Flourishing her blade in a subtle taunt, she goaded the creature to charge once more, inviting its onslaught. It heeded the challenge, charging forward with primal determination. Yet, her nimble form danced around its attacks.

Swift as a breath, Gwendolyn surged forward, bypassing the chiefling's desperate swing, But as it tried to pivot to face her, the ground betrayed it, causing a stumble that ended in a fall. Gwendolyn seized the opportunity, retreating a step before launching herself forward in a whirl of motion. Her blade, an extension of her will, found its mark in the vulnerable throat of the fallen chiefling.

A gurgled howl escaped the beast's lips as the chiefling's lifeblood gushed, its final bellow resonating amidst the crackling flames as the chiefling's struggles subsided, its body convulsing in its death throes.

Gwendolyn withdrew her blade, her gaze sweeping the field now illuminated by the inferno, to where another towering figure loomed. This creature, older and grizzled, bore the insignia of time etched into its braided beard, adorned with beads and bones. It seemed to hold a connection to the fallen chiefling, and its gaze bore an ancient weight.

The aged beast's gaze, riveted on the fallen chiefling, betrayed a connection. Gwendolyn's calculating eyes shifted between the two, grasping the unspoken truth—a father witnessing the demise of his son.

In an instant, Gwendolyn's blade arced through the air, severing the chiefling's head from its body. The roar of the horde intensified, an outraged symphony. With the severed head in hand, Gwendolyn gestured toward the pack, holding it aloft like a morbid trophy.

Her cryptic words echoed across the battleground, her voice a stark contrast to the chaos that engulfed her. "I shall return for the rest of thy kin and the fates will cast thee to oblivion," she spoke, a vow whispered holding the faintest fragment of anger across the burning wind.

With that, her sword found its sheath, and her steps turned toward retreat. She traversed the bridge, the flames now a boundary between her and the horde. But just as the precipice of safety beckoned about halfway across, a sudden whooshing sound arrested her movement. Her instincts flared, and she twisted to face the unseen assailant.

Pain seared her side, a spear's cruel kiss. Stumbling backwards, Gwendolyn's sapphire eyes widened as she sought the source, only to find the chieftain staring back, his cold, red eyes penetrating the darkness.

Darkness encroached as Gwendolyn's vision blurred, the world falling away in fragments of fiery light. And as the final shreds of consciousness dissolved the final sound she heard was the triumphant roar of the pack, resonating through the night.

Roleplay from Gwendolyn Briarwood

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Gwendolyn: The Slaughter (PT 3)

Gwendolyn awoke with a start. Her eyes snapped open, devoid of any sentiment, and she surged upright as though guided by unseen hands. A swift scan revealed her surroundings – a room draped in the embrace of ancient, darkened wood. The air was pregnant with the weight of unspoken secrets.

As her gaze danced around the space, Gwendolyn's attention was drawn to the form seated nearby. Captain Elvira, her unwavering second-in-command, bore the visible aftermath of the recent conflict. Bandages swathed her once-proud frame, concealing wounds both dire and telling. A jagged gash of darkness covered her left eye and wound its way across her head, The absence of her right arm was evident, the evidence concealed beneath layers of cloth.

Elvira's resentful sigh, an exhalation of smouldering emotions, was the first voice that met Gwendolyn's ears. "I was hoping you wouldn't wake up. You were out for two hours, the healers saved you, Lucky you," she intoned, the words heavy with a raw edge.

Rising lithely from her chair, Elvira approached Gwendolyn's bed. Gwendolyn sat up, her gaze fixed on the world with an otherworldly detachment. Bandages wrapped her torso, a testament to the recent turmoil she had endured. A stain, marking the passage of blood, graced her left side.

"I should cut your throat, right now," Elvira's words were a venomous hiss, like the whispered threat of a serpent in the night, "For leading us into the slaughter."

Gwendolyn met Elvira's gaze, her own chillingly cold. Her voice carried no inflection as she inquired, "How many."

Elvira's teeth clenched in suppressed fury, her voice dripping with the bitterness of defeat. "All your Blackshields are dead," she spat, her tone dripping with acid, "my men are the only ones who made it out, all of them wounded. Most will die overnight, the rest will never fight again."

Gwendolyn's response was a mere nod, her demeanour untouched by the magnitude of the losses. "I see," her voice a whisper of a sigh, "that is unfortunate. We will have to exercise greater caution in the next engagement."

This measured response ignited a tempest within Elvira. Her patience, worn thin by the weight of her emotions, crumbled. Her palm slapped against Gwendolyn's cheek, and in the wake of the stinging blow, her fingers closed around Gwendolyn's throat. Rage and frustration merged in her voice as she roared, "THERE ISN'T GOING TO BE ANOTHER BATTLE, YOU DUMB BITCH! MY MEN AND I WILL NOT FOLLOW YOU INTO ANOTHER SLAUGHTER, DO YOU HEAR ME!"

Gwendolyn's unyielding gaze remained fixed upon Elvira, her stillness unwavering even in the face of danger. As Elvira's grip loosened, Gwendolyn's composure was a stark contrast to the tempest that roared around her.

Elvira stepped back, her face contorted with a mixture of disgust and disdain. "You are a freak of nature," she spat, the words dripping with repulsion. "You unfeeling, heartless, soulless creature."

With an unhurried grace, Gwendolyn rose from the bed, her hand steadying her side as she stood. She crossed the chamber to her chest, retrieving a sack of gold with an air of finality. The clinking of metal echoed as she tossed the bag to Elvira.

"Take thy payment," Gwendolyn's voice cut through the tension, a cold wind amidst the storm. "Thee and thy men may leave. Our contract has reached its end."

Her voice, devoid of warmth or animosity, continued, "I shall ride to the capital and seek a new unit. I shall offer my prayers to the winds of fate for thy men's swift recovery."

Elvira's laughter, a brittle and bitter echo resounded as she accepted the gold, A mirthless smile played upon her lips, her voice dripping with caustic sarcasm. "I shall inform the men of your well wishes, I am sure it will ease their pain as they die of their wounds. You bitch!" The door closed behind her its slam punctuating the finality of their exchange, leaving Gwendolyn in solitude once more.

Gwendolyn exhaled, a sound as delicate as a wisp of smoke. Her fingers, slender and pale, reached up to touch her cheek where Elvira's parting strike had landed. A single tear traced its path down her cheek brushed her fingers, a testament to the intricate labyrinth of emotions hidden beneath her stoic façade. The tear, an anomaly in her world of detachment, was swiftly wiped away, and Gwendolyn set herself to the task at hand. With the assistance of her scouts and healers, before embarking on her journey anew as they prepared to return to Askileon.