Demon Wind I was gonna use this on a story night but alas you asked for it.
The small fire lit the cave, casting shadows and a reddish light over the jagged, dirt and stonewalls.
The fire crackled as Rumil tossed another handful of dry pine needles and pinecones onto in.
He had been unable to find anything better to use on his fire that was dry, due to the raging storm outside.
As soon as the fire was higher again, Rumil leaned back onto some warm rocks and became comfortable again.
The small fire and his thick cloak were the only things the ageing man had to keep himself warm during the chilly night.
He sighed and half closed his eyes.
These cold nights were no stranger to him.
He had spent plenty of them, hiding in the shelter of caves and under hedges.
At his side lay his leather pack, his old, rune covered sword and an old, worn wooden staff with a rusting iron band around the bottom.
Out of habit, Rumil pulled the staff across his knees and stroked the rusted metal.
"Nearly forty years, old friend. Nearly forty years," he murmured. He placed down the staff and lifted his sword.
It was a heavy weapon, but Rumil had wielded it for nearly as long and no longer noticed how much heavier it was than other weapons.
He carefully traced the runes with his calloused fingertips. Written in soft Elven runes were the words he had always trusted.
Translated into English, it read, 'All those who shalt wield Ellihist need not fear the darkness'.
Rumil closed his eyes for a moment and the old pains in his side returned, as he remembered that day.
He fingered the long, jagged purple scars below his tunic and breathed heavier. It was exactly thirty-nine years,
ten months and four days earlier that the Battle of Britain had occurred.
That day had been seared into his memory and he had never been able to shake off the thoughts of that dark day.
He had been twenty years old and in his last year as a squire.
The castle of Britian was a tall structure that was built for battle.
It was said no man could penetrate the walls.
The people of the castle were men of war who were the main defence between
the peaceful lands of Sosaria and the terrible dungeon of Despise.
It was mainly man who inhabited Sosaria, but there was the occasional stray Dwarf or an Elf or two.
These races got along well, for the races of all Sosaria were welcome in the great castle.
However, it had been that day the Orc's had come charging from Despise, on the backs of wolves,
with weapons in hands. It had been Rumil's duty to watch in the Gong tower and ring the large metal gong if danger approached.
He had seen them coming, a black line, stretching out across the entire horizon.
He had rung the gong with the metal band around one end of his hard, straight wooden staff, before running to join his comrades.
He still had his staff when he reached the ground floor.
Someone had tossed him a sword and helmet as the drawbridge was lowered and the Noble Riders galloped forth
from the castle to meet the threat. They were tall men who rode enormous warhorses and could kill anything with deadly accuracy.
They were known as the Noble Riders because of their claim to Nobility.
Along with two other squires, Rumil had rushed to the walls, amongst the archers, to watch the battle.
The Nobles were as deadly as the rumours stated. The bulk of their riders had charged through the centre with lances,
tearing apart a large number of the leaders.
Smaller groups of the riders,
armed with curved swords had moved to either side of the Orc's ranks and were slicing off pieces of the enemy.
Rumil remembered smiling and sheathing his sword. He had held the staff to his chest to keep it out of the way,
as he watched the fight. Thick black blood was oozing across the fields,
and a smaller amount of rich red blood seemed to be coating it.
The Orcs seemed to halt their charge, and then suddenly, there was a roar like thunder.
The wolves had howled and the tables were turned, and no one knew how. Suddenly,
one by one the Noble Riders fell, disappearing amongst the black mass of the opposing armies.
The cries of the men were heard as they fell. Soon, there were no more.
The laughter and cheering could be heard from the Orc ranks as they began their charge again.
Lord British, King of Sosaria had appeared on the walls, watching with a steely glint in his eyes. "They grow,"
he had said to the captain of the archers.
"Be ready to strike when they are within range."
"Yes, my lord," the slim archer had replied.
Rumil and the other squires had moved away from the archers to give them room.
They found an empty space to watch, when a knight appeared and grabbed Rumil and the nearest squire by the shoulders.
The knight was Rumil's older brother Alanon, who had been a knight for a year.
"The knights will charge soon, young friends. Be ready to charge with them!"
he warned, before hurrying on to tell some more squires.
Rumil had tightened his helmet and tapped his light chain mail.
Still holding the staff, he moved to the ground floor once again,
but this time in the courtyards near the stables and the larger gates.
There he waited amongst the other ranks. He could not see any of his three brothers.
Outside, the cries of the Orcs were close. On the walls above, the archer's bows were singing.
The arrows that rained down on the enemy were gleaming white and strengthened by countless mages.
Suddenly, Lord British appeared from above, dressed in his full gold armour.
"To your horses!" he bellowed.
The knights obeyed instantly, ready for this challenge.
The King mounted his blazing white horse and ordered them to move into their columns.
They obeyed instantly. Rumil was amongst the back rows, with other squires.
His sword was in one hand and the other rested the staff across his knees.
They waited for what seemed like an hour when the king roared for the gates to be opened.
The knight's charge was a blur in Rumil's memory.
However,
it was around an hour later that all the troops were fighting on foot,
the knights included. Rumil was fighting desperately by the body of his dead brother.
He did not know that it was his eldest brother beneath the armour at his feet,
with a spear in his chest. He did not know that his other two brothers were also dead on either side of the battlefield.
Alanon with a crossbow bolt in the throat, which had pierced his armour.
The body of Rumil's younger brother, a squire of only sixteen, lay at the feet of a Orc general.
The boy's head was atop the Orc's spear.
Rumil had dropped his staff and not moved from where he stood for some time, as he fought off several of the enemies.
The wolves had been frightened off when Lord British's mages had hurled balls of flame earlier.
Rumil skewered the Orc he was fighting and turned to face another, when Lord British appeared at his side, with Ellihist in his hand.
The pair fought through three more Orcs when one of their captains had appeared.
He was slightly taller that Rumil and dressed from throat to toes in black chain mail.
He grinned sickly and lunged at the king, crying a word in the Orc Language that made Rumil shuddered.
British and the Orc fought back and forth, while Rumil and another soldier protected the king's back.
Rumil turned when he heard British cry out.
Ellihist had been snapped in two a foot below the hilt and the King was on his knees,
bleeding from below his crushed helmet.
As the Orc captain brought his sword down for a final blow,
Rumil moved in and blocked it. With a curse, the Orc brought his sword down again;
driving in through the chain mail and slicing Rumil open from below the rib cage to the hip.
He had fallen by his king with a cry.
The Orc captain stood above gloating as he raised his sword for the final blow as he kicked aside Rumil's own sword.
Rumil's fingers groped behind him on the blood soaked ground for a weapon and his fingered tightened around a wooden staff.
He clutched it, and with all his might, swung a blow into the air, catching the Orc across the cheek with the metal band.
He cried out as black blood touched his cheek where the metal had struck.
His eyes narrowed in anger. Rumil's eyes flashed to his side and he pulled the broken sword from British's hands.
He swung forward and jabbed the Orc's knee with the jagged points where the sword had broken.
While the Orc was distracted by the suddenly, low pain,
Rumil shot up and drove the blade upwards,
through his chin and into his skull. After drawing the sword out, Rumil groaned and collapsed.
The last thing he saw before losing consciousness was the King, pulling himself up and looking at him strangely.
When Rumil had awoken, he was in the infirmary. His chest and side were heavily wrapped in bandages.
Lord British was standing over him with a strange look of respect and concern in his dark eyes.
"Welcome back, lad," the king had said with a slight smile.
"Thank you, your majesty," Rumil mumbled.
He had lain still for a moment before his eyes widened.
"Your sword, sire. I dropped it on the battlefield-"
"The battle is over and I brought both halves of Ellihist back with me.
I want it to be reforged before I presented it to you."
"To me? Sire I-"
"I also found this on the battlefield. It saved both our lives and I thought you would like to keep it,"
the King was holding the wooden staff with the iron band.
"Sire, your sword. I cannot-"
"Yes you can, Rumil. You saved my life and I owe you. It is the least I can do.
The blade is worth far less than what I should reward you."
"I - Thank you, sire." Rumil had given up at that point and fallen asleep again.
Opening his eyes, Rumil glanced at his small fire.
The flames were dying again and he was growing cold. He tossed on some more pinecones and lay back down.
He gently touched his ancient staff a final time before curling up to his sleep.
Hope others take the time to use the imagination a bit more. Let's see what we come up with.
As for stories here it goes!