I thought I might share some of my latest MOCs for the Lands of Roawia. We just had our 10th Global Challenge, so these are based around the events of that.
Traveling South
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Small was the amount of time holding apart Sir Ian Drakesbane's summons for help and the company's departure for Blackloch. A band of willing elite were mustered from the ranks of Dunharris' city garrison, wagons were prepared, lance-tips sang there grinding groan upon whetstones, and the now battle-hungry ballista, or rather so its crew, was made ready for the marched through the winding mountain passes. A dawn swept its pastel colors across the sky the dragon-hunting band marched from the cities' walls, the bagpiper blaring a farewell tune to give time to the march. The clatter of shields and helms slung over shoulders added to the general clamor, causing the horses the champ, and swing their heads unsurely. Within a half day's march, however, they met their first signs of the growing unrest. Word had now reached Dunharris of Lenfald's shocking independence declaration and the complimentary riotous reactions. Subsequently, many areas and clans were preparing for possible war. Many, including Dunharris, were willing to stand for Lenfald's cause should Jarius choose to let slip the dogs of war once more. As the the long, narrow column approached what was sometimes referred to as "Blackfjord pass", a shallow valley slashed by a moutain stream, a smaller party, armed for combat, came into view from the opposite direction. Sir Ian kicked his mount into a trot, and held up a hand behind him for the column to stop. With a delay and a subdued clatter, the tramping of feet and hoarse marching-chants died out. "Ho there!" he cried, directing his voice to an armored man with a large axe who had stepped onto the stone bridge. "What brings ye armed for war along such paths?" The man, a tall, helmed, and roughly shaven far-north dweller with a dirty face hesitated and glanced about uncertainly. "Ah… We come to march to the aid of…an army who would join Lenfald's cause." He spoke with a strong accent derived from a Northeast region. "Oh really?" returned Ian, raising an eyebrow. "Ye seem to be heading' the wrong direction, then."
"Indeed." the man spoke with a lower voice. He was obviously crafting the tale on the spur of the moment. Sir Ian stepped closer, and nurturing the beginning of an idea, continued:"We march for Orevale. To give aid to an effort to slay a foul beast terrorizing the region." Then, "I can pay fine gold for help such as yours. Blade and shaft are wanted in such affairs." The warrior glanced back at his comrades, attempting to confer with them through hand signs. After a short debate he turned back, and, as if left with no choice, directed at Ian: "We will lend our blades to your cause, for the right price." "Aye, it shall be delivered when the dragon lies dead upon the ground." The new mercenaries nodded, slowly, and stood aside as the column once again heaved itself into march, then began to jog alongside, casting glances at each nervously. Ian was not sure whether to trust them; they obviously were hiding something. But if it came to a fight, his men could overpower the group. Seems the unrest of matters in the land is driving more and more unsure purposes, he thought.
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Into The Fire
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Sir Ian stumbled backward in a panic and squinted, shielding his face from the scorching heat. The fell blast, born of the Echowyrm's maw, engulfed an unfortunate pine tree and wrapped it in deadly dancing orange wreaths, quickly charring the greenery. A blond archer sprinted past and leveled his heavy crossbow at his target, discharging a quarrel. He rolled back again and sought the safety of the Orevale shield wall. Ian grimace, blinking stinging sweat and ash form his face. The said Caedric Moore had a dragon indeed. Moore had turned out to be a tall, slender and worn guardsmen who speech as laced with wry humor. Though few winters had he upon Sir Ian, he bore himself as if the experience of years and hardships lay upon him. And he was nowhere to be found bringing up the rear of the attack, thought Ian as across the field Caedric rallied a flanking wedge of pikemen toward their foe, urging them on with hoarse yells. Noticing the opportunity to divide the dragon's attention, Sir Ian yelled with a raw throat to the ballista operators to fire once more, then charged forward on a third side, leveling his spear as the heat overtook him…
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Dunharris Burns
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Build may or may not be guaranteed to be over 9000x more epic if you listen to this to go with the build
The reduced band of warriors slowly trundled along the path towards the coast. Many soldiers were bandaged, having been burned or clawed by the Echowyrm. But now the battle was over(See RoninDragonslayer's GC Unrestricted, coming later tonight, to see how the battle went!). Men had been lost to the beast, and others who were too battered to make the return trip were being healed at the Orevale hospital. The small sloped smattering of hills leading to the coastline brought the fading sunrise into view as they trudge up it slowly. Sir Ian led the band. He smelled the familiar smell of fish and salt spicing the sea air. There seemed to be something else unusual mixed with it; an alien presence in the usual menagerie of fishing town scents. The due of the hill fell away to present the open plain. Sir Ian Drakesbane fell to his knees. Pouring from the city like an angry black fog was a vast, churning, roiling cloud of smoke. A cackling, spiteful blaze trimmed it, pouring flame, ash and thousands of sparks from the rooftops of the city. As he watched, helpless from the mile away, an enormous section of the city crumpled in defeat, surrendering a gust of sparks into the turmoil. Sir Ian wept as the long column came to a stop on the hill top, lining beside him; transfixed with shock and horrow as their home was consumed by the bellowing inferno. "GO! All of you! Scatter! LEAVE!" He screamed, emotion pounding and blurring in his mind. The Southern wind blew gently, clutching his tattered cloak and holding it to his side, like a grim and weary banner sadly saluting the end fiery of a rising city. He bowed his head and wept again. Then, rising slowly, clutched his spear tightly with a hot fury and strode down the path towards the gate.
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