silver and steel, a ballad of the crusades.

a one shot i wrote about a year ago, this is all there is at the moment. mainly because some douchebag locked me out of MY laptop i had it stored on... anyway, i recovered the file and here it is for your perusal.


also, Alph is illiterate, thus why we have alec reading for him...



for those of you here on the fur den i have some extra assorted info:

there was supposed to be another chgaracter named myrrdin. A.K.A. Merlin emrys.
who suprisingly... Is the sixth emeritus of evanessence, mistress fade's teacher and predecessor.

yeah, it all connects. but i never finished....








Silver and Steel
A ballad of the crusades.



The sun slowly rose up from the horizon, it’s rays revealing the carnage of the night before. Bodies strewn about, tangled and unmoving, an obscene parody of the wild brambles that dotted the field. British, French, German and Turks, death paints all men alike…

Lord Alphonse shuddered as the sun’s rays hit him, and seemed to shrink somewhat inside his vast suit of armor. He released the two immense war axes that were his weapons of choice, and let them fall to the ground with a muffled clank. Reaching up with trembling hands he slowly removed his helm, shaped like the head of a grey wolf. It was both a blessing, as the heathens feared it, and a bane, his constant reminder of what he was. His auburn hair was matted down with sweat, and served to make his dark complexion look even darker. In a hoarse voice he called out, “SQUIRE!”

From beneath a pile of Turkish corpses, a hand surfaced and waved back and forth. Alphonse let out a laugh that sounded more like a bark and grabbed the hand, tugging out a tiny figure. “Ah thought ah told you to record the battle…”

The squire Alec, aged twelve years, stood at barely four feet dwarfed by his master, who stood at nearly six and a half.
“I was sir, they fell on me and --” Alec’s eyes went wide and he plunged back into the pile, digging frantically. After a moment he fell over backward, holding a bloodstained scroll, “here sir,” and handed it to Alphonse.

Lord Alphonse unfurled the scroll, trying to look as if he knew what he was doing. Unfortunately, alphonse was illiterate, as were many knights of his caliber. Alec bit his lip, looking away and after a moment, moved to stand next to his master. “The heathens number three hundred and one thousand.”

“An’ what of the lord‘s army?”

Alec‘s eyes ran down the scroll, “Two score and five hundred, including yourself sir, this is a battle that will be sung of for years to come.”

Alphonse grinned a wry grin, “Overwhelmin’ odds eh?”

“Indeed… now the total dead… I got twelve hundred from the heathens, and two hundred of our own, before I got buried.”

“After which, ah assume things got messy. Speaking of which…” he tugged at the leather ties that held on his chest plate. As it fell off, he gasped and felt beneath his right arm. A Turkish scimitar had gashed him there during the battle. His tunic was stained with blood all the way down, but had been there long enough to dry to a dull brown. He growled and ripped the tunic open, but the wound was no longer a problem, in fact, it looked several months old.

Alec’s eyes went wide, and then he smiled, “Yet again… you sir are one of a kind…”

Alphonse tousled his squire’s hair and sat down, “Ah‘m goin at pay mephisto a visit, wake me ‘f there‘s trouble.”

Within a few minutes, alphonse was asleep, snoring raucously. Alec picked up his master’s helm and sighed, “he‘s so lucky…”