King in the League [5/9, Night]
It was a cold, foggy night in Williamstown. The town had been a rather quiet one for the past few years, so the dreary silence that oppressed this town tonight was nothing new. William Fitzwulf had conquered Williamstown years ago, but the memory remained fresh even till this day. The memory of the countless crippled men, of the wives and daughters that had been raped, of the utter savagery that William Fitzwulf and his barbaric men had displayed. In the end, the town that was once named Blanchetown had its name changed. Nothing. The people of this town were allowed to retain nothing. Their pride gone, their women raped, their men dead, their gold stolen and their future – the children, left with a lifetime’s worth of nasty, bloodcurdling memories.
Needless to say, the once glorious town had taken a long, long time to rebuild from the past, and even now it wasn’t done. Regardless, the town rested on the borders of the Westerlands, and that is perhaps why a sizable compliment of Fitzwulf guardsmen had remained stationed there, in order to oversee town activities. Tonight, things seemed a little off. It was not the fog that had seemingly crept everywhere, or the pair of ravens that cawed incessantly, or the inexplicably tensed horses. No, it was the simple fact that the guards doing guard duty for the night had mysteriously disappeared.
“Still no sign? I suppose I will have to take watch for the night. The two of you go look for them, and come back once you find any news. I will be the one watching for the night.” Said the Guard-Captain Westbrook, as a couple of his men nodded and scurried off immediately. Sir Westbrook sighed, and began his watch. Things had been unusual lately, but he wasn’t remotely worried. It wasn’t like they were facing a war. He didn’t have to wait too long for his guards to get back. At once, Sir Westbrook knew something was wrong. His guardsmen was crying in pure agony, and limping back to town.
“W-We, are under attack, Captain, ready the… guard…” said the man, as he collapsed on Sir Westerling’s feet. Shocked and thoroughly confused, Sir Westerling blew the conch that would signal his guardsmen in event of an emergency. Even as he drew his blade and stood rooted on his spot, he couldn’t help but find his hands shake a little, for he knew his men weren’t ready for a surprise attack like this. There was no time to call for reinforcements either. None. What was he to do in a situation like this?
On the outskirts of the city, hidden in the fog, stood a sea of grey cloaks. In their lead was a robust, formidable man with an enormous silver beard. Rokharo Bloodpaw, they called him. For over fifty years, he had been a feared warrior in all of Westerlands, and challenging him in single combat would be a nightmare for just about anyone. It wasn’t just him tonight. There were three hundred men following him. Three Hundred.
“Tonight we take what is ours! All Hail the King in the League!”
“The King in the League!” roared the three hundred men that followed him, and at once the horses neighed and galloped into Williamstown, disturbing the relative tranquility of the town. A bloody battle would ensue, and the Fitzwulf guardsmen would give it their best against Bloodpaw’s clansmen. Hours later, one could hear cries of victory, as the sun’s luminous rays draped Williamstown, and most notably Sir Westbrook’s severed head, that now rested on the top of a spear – the spear of a victorious Rokharo Bloodpaw.
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