VICTORY UPON ELVEN SOIL

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Edward Radcliffe knelt down in prayer, his sword and hauberk bloodied and stained with crimson
Steel rang throughout the valley of the southern mountains, with blood curdling screams and scattered severed limbs. Heavy grunts and lung popping breaths exacerbated the mouth of the young Edward Radcliffe as he found himself cornered by four elves. With his back nearing the oaken tree which cast a shadow across the ground, he dug his feet into the mud and gripped his sword with a firm grip.
Like a wiccan farmer upon his crop field, a scythe cutting through the grain, Edward struck out in attack. He blinded one elf with the pommel guard of his sword before bringing his blade to his throat. Blood splattered up into his face, cascading his vision and allowing an elf to bring his glaive upon his exposed side.
Edward dropped to his knee, yelling in pain he immediately turned to face the elf in preparation for the killing-blow and with the build up of adrenaline and an opportune time he struck forward piercing the lung of the elf. Upon his feet did Edward rise, sword loosely held and exhaustion overwhelming his legs.
A third elf approached him on horseback and stood up on his stirrups with a lance aimed towards his chest. Edward shoved the lance to the side and pulled the elven horseman from his horse, sending them both into a muddy brawl upon the feet of his fallen comrades. He clambered desperately for his sword that was lost in the wrestle, instead he drew his seax and thrust it into the neck of the horseman, ending him rightly.
A crimson waterfall formed from the gash of the horseman as he lay choking on his own blood. Edward rose to his feet once more, his legs shaking as his adrenaline came to a near close. Exhaustion was soon to overwhelm and as he retreated behind the tree, a whistling arrow pierced his leg. He rested briefly under the respite of whatever time he could muster, praying to himself he turned the corner and limp-charged the elf. With the bold charge and seemingly death-defying movement, the elf panicked and missed his arrow only to find his head cleaved by Edward’s longsword.
Edward fell upon the mud once again, his foes lay among him dead but he lay victorious. In pain, injured and bleeding Edward crawled forward and bent over beneath the tree breaking out into a prayer that would deliver him from this horror. He awoke upon a wooden cart in the sunny fields of Calendale, a host of brethren knights and soldiers cheering him in applaud.
 

Ryanark

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Mildþryð cheered and applauded with the rest of the crowd, as Edward was driven into the city by cart. "The Spirit of all Wiccan warriors before you blessed you!"
 

Dog

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The wounded man shifts his gray-hued orbs into the air; the news of his comrades victory came with his lips curling into a smile. One hand lifting into the air, he gestured his finger towards the nearby corpse of the elf. His fingers presented one gesture: it was shaped as an L.

Eventually, the man crawled up towards the rotting corpse, his canines plunging into its flesh. Ichor pooled its way into his maw, done so secretly, to procure some health in him once more.
 

Jentos

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A priest was bent before the flames of the temple. "Their numbers stand more than ours. Surrounded by foes and stalked by all. But ours was a just cause. The elves has answered vengeance by vengeance, and they shall be struck down. Calendale sits alone in this war, but blessed by the might of the Sun itself; guided by Flame - Or so I hope that it is, or see us falter." This he murmured into the flames, wavering his hands at it. Though his prayers were met with silence, he nonetheless shivered, as his heart felt heavy, brimming with passion.
 

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