Hopeless Wanderer

''Normal is not something to aspire to, it's something to get away from.''

[hopelesswanderer1789]

They had taken from him that, that he had loved most in the world and as his pyre lit up the night the hero of the Achaens mourned for he had lost all that was beautiful and bright. Upon him came a rage, a rage that would petrify the gods. Achilles, the man who had leapt on these shores in search of glory and immortality now marched to the great walls of Troy with a hunger for nothing but vengeance. A hunger that could only be satisfied by the blood of a prince of Troy. The horse’s hooves kicked at the barren dirt until it was pulled to a standstill and the warrior leapt from his chariot. A god had tried to stop him, but nevertheless the son of Peleus would have his fight, nothing Olympus could bring forth could stay the hand of Achilles. The man that ended his happiness, his life, would have to die. And so stood great Achilles at the gates of Troy, cursing the name of Hector time and again until the prince would come out to face him and meet his destiny. And as time lasted and the war carried on, after avenging the one he loved most, even Achilles the greatest of the Achaens would have to cross the Styx and meet his fate.  And so as he had wished his ashes were mixed with those of the one he had loved most and the winds would carry them forever together, wherever their names were spoken.

[hopelesswanderer1789]

The salt stained wood carved its way through the sand as the bronze ram of the first ship made landfall. Arrows whistled through the sky to decimate the small crew of armed men on board. The war cries echoed over the wooden hull as arrowheads thumped of shields and armour. With a fierce roar the warriors leapt from the bow and sandals crashed into the white pristine sand. The first man of the boat and the first on foreign soil was their leader. The son of Peleus king of Phthia, Achilles, champion of the Achaens. He charged forward as his men spilled from the boats. The Myrmidons had landed and until the rest of fleet would beach their ships and join the fray they would have to fight like lions. With a fire in their hearts as bright and scorching as the forges of Hephaestos they hacked at the Trojans with spear and sword. At the head of a fleet of a thousand ships these men had come to the shores of Troy for a woman and a king’s ambition.

[hopelesswanderer1789]

Don't make other people the key to your own happiness.

[hopelesswanderer1789]

The old gods are dead, we are the new.

[hopelesswanderer1789]

Live intensely, live passionately, that's what we're here for.

[hopelesswanderer1789]

If history were taught in the form of stories, it would never be forgotten.

[hopelesswanderer1789]

The only way to deal with an unfree world is to become so absolutely free that your very existence is an act of rebellion.

Albert Camus

[hopelesswanderer1789]

Ride of the Rohirim

It was then when doom was nigh and all hope was deemed lost, that their faces turned to meet the sound of horns from the west. All along the ridge line hundreds of banners started to rise from the ground. Great green bolts of cloth embroidered with white horses galloping to meet the wind. A line of mail-clad men crested the ridge, their armour dusty and battered from the long ride and old battles fought. Their lines topped by spear points glistening in the morning sun and banners streaming through a river of air. The orc hoards amassed outside the walls of Minas Tirith turned in shock to see the riders of Rohan emerging from thin air on their flank. It was soon that the horsemaster's horns were met by those of the defenders remaining in the city streets and on the walls, it was then that the men of Gondor realised that this day might yet belong to man. Cries went up from the city streets as men gave their last and rushes of steel-clad warriors emerged from doors and small alleys putting orcs to the sword. High up on the white walls archers rallied to their captains and unleashed flights of arrows on the orc hoards below them. On bowstrings the famed rangers of Ithilien played their songs of war, sending arrows whistling through the sky. It was then that the horns of Rohan ceased their calls and commanders darted across the lines returning to their companies. Encouraged by their king's words the horns of the Rohirrim shattered the sky and the cries went up from thousands of men at once: "Death!", "Death!", "Death!" And the ground trembled under the weight of tens of thousands of hooves kicking at the soil. It felt like an earthquake as a tidal wave of horsemen closed on the orcish ranks. The first volley hit home and struck men and horse alike to the ground. And when it hit its mark another volley was unleashed by the orcish archers shielded by their spearmen. But arrows could not stop the war crazed riders as they fell upon Mordor's lines with axe, spear and sword. They broke through the hedge of spearpoints cleaving orcheads left and right, trampling what remained under their horses' hooves leaving a bloody mess of an army in the wake of their charge.

[hopelesswanderer1789]

Soleil d’Austerlitz

At a steady pace the green coated men advanced, with bayonets at the ready the lines of Russian infantry marched down the slope of the hill. There were but reports of few Frenchmen beyond the fogbank they were about to enter, a couple of volleys and the bayonet ought to see them clear off. The thunder of the bellowing cannons could be heard behind them as the tsar’s guns took on those of the emperor of the French. Sweated gunners manned the batteries on the Pratzen heights as they tried to pound their counterparts into submission. Below this grand duel the Russian infantry advanced on their target, Davout’s III corps. The march through the fog was steady and quiet, until through the fog a light appeared like a line of fire. Hundreds of muzzle flashes accompanied by the sound of a volley of French muskets erupted from the blue coated ranks. Officers shouted the men to a halt, sergeants hurriedly dressed the ranks filling the gaps were but a few moments before men had stood who’s position now was filled by corpses. Drummers frantically echoed the commands of the officers, while one of the colours was being picked up again. Then just as quick the command came to present and fire the Russian line produced a wall of lead for their French antagonists. This volley was answered by several screams of pain and thuds as nearly a dozen near lifeless French bodies fell to the ground. Mere seconds after the bodies hit the ground the French returned the favour and send another volley into the fog, plucking back a few Russians to the ground in a spray of blood. After exchanging another volley the Muscovites could hear a sound to the right of them. Reinforcements perhaps, the Austrians? The sun was appearing from behind the clouds, its rays cutting through the fog. Slowly as the sounds of hundreds of feet rhythmically hitting the ground approached them the mist cleared. The first they saw of them were mere silhouettes, then the sun caught on to the steel of their bayonets. It was not for long that they saw something else glistening in the sun above the oncoming formation, a standard, an eagle. Anxious shouts were exchanged throughout the Russian lines whilst officers in near panicked state  tried to reform the right flank to meet the oncoming threat. As if on cue the chant started to echo through the oncoming French column supported by the drums beating the pas de charge: ‘vive l’empereur!’, ‘vive l’empereur!’, ‘vive l’empereur!’ Then the order came and a mass of frenzied men was unleashed upon the terrified Russians, who were now outnumbered and nearly cut off. The green coated ranks braced for impact, but a few seconds before the French were upon them a roar bursted out of the green lines and a surge of men counter charged the blue mass. An officer sword high in the air led them with the colours leading just behind him. A melee broke out as the two forces brutally collided, some men were bayonetted on impact while others started their little duels. But this was no proper fight, it was a gutter brawl. A Frenchmen contracted two bayonets to the stomach and was forced to the ground after which his assailants twisted their blades and pulled them out to wreak more havoc. Another Frenchman parried his enemy’s thrust and landed the butt of his musket right into the Russian’s lower jaw splintering it. Whilst one of his countrymen was hurled to the ground by a Muscovite who already lost his weapon and started pommelling the man’s face with his bare fists. A musket was discharged just a few feet away from them and plucked back a crazed Russian who was about to finish off his quarry. Then suddenly a cry erupted to the left of the brawl as the other French line joined the dance. A surge of blue coated men joined the fray and swept over the green lines like a tidlewave. The Russians under the extra pressure of bodies broke and frantically made a run for it back up the hill. They nearly threw each other back to be the first out of the tavern brawl this engagement had turned into. The French rallied and a ragged mass of men was formed, one Russian officer ripped the colours out of a fleeing sergeant’s hands and shouted for his men to form a line. A score of men joined him in his makeshift rear-guard but were quickly discouraged of standing their ground when a volley soaked their ranks in blood and their leader and a few of his followers were send to meet their maker. To the sneers of the steadily advancing Frenchmen the Russians beat a hasty retreat.

[hopelesswanderer1789]

The Hound and the Lightning Lord.

‘’Lord, cast your light upon us. Show us the truth, strike this man down if he is guilty or give strength to his sword if he is true. Lord of light give us wisdom, for the night is dark and full of terrors.’’ The lightning lord held out his hand as the red priest drew his sword. The blade slowly slid through the palm of his hand as blood was drawn, and Beric drew his own blade. He looked at his hand and saw the reflection of the fire glistening in his blood, Clegane was impatiently waving his sword around, trying to get a feel for the steel’s worth. Dondarrion slowly placed his own blade against the open wound in his hand letting the blood flow down the steel, in the blink of an eye he threw his hand up along the length of the blade and out of the steel burst a flame. Sandor stepped back in fright, a terrified look took hold of his face as he saw the lightning lord’s weapon burst out in flame. He held the flaming sword up to the sky, lighting up the cave for all to see. The room was filled with faces frozen in disbelief, yet one was utterly horrified. The hound was gazing at the sword though his mind was elsewhere, the memories ran through his mind, the little toy knight he was playing with, his brother driving his head into the hot fire, his screams, he could feel the charred wood rubbing against the side of his face. He still stood there motionless as someone slid a shield across his left arm. Then he broke loose from his memories and lunged out at the lightning lord who by now stood ready to meet him. Beric parried the thrust with his shield and brought the flaming sword heavily down upon the hound who quickly blocked it with his shield. Steel met steel as the flames danced through the darkness, they moved around the fire pommelling each other with their blades. As Beric’s sword glanced of his armour Sandor could the warmth of the flames. Brute strength was met by agility as Beric deflected the momentum of each of Sandor’s blows. The lightning lord lunged out forcing the hound back, almost tripping in a small campfire. With a renewed rage Clegane charged forward but was sidestepped by Beric who tripped the hound and forced him to the ground. Multiple times Beric brought the flaming blade down on the hound but he was blocked at every try. Sandor managed to get up and lifted his blade, bringing it down so hard that it chopped of a part of Beric’s shield. Before long both shields were reduced to nothing and discarded. It was blade against blade, Clegane’s cold steel against the lightning lord’s fiery blade. Beric lunged once again at Sandor but was parried, the hound lifted his blade above his head and brought it with a cry of pure anger down on the lightning lord. Beric lifted his sword to parry the blow but Clegane’s blade cut through fire and steel to burry itself in the lightning lord’s shoulder. The room fell silent as Beric Dondarrion fell to the ground. The red priest hurried to the body of his friend hurriedly repeating his prayers over the dead body. Clegane was feeling contended knowing he’d won when his heart sank, he turned around and before him stood the lightning lord as alive as he was but an hour ago.

[hopelesswanderer1789]

Retour des cendres

He gently pushed his way through the crowd, the streets where lined with men and woman eager to see the old emperor. He made his way too the front and looked to his left expecting to catch a glimpse of the funeral carriage, but he couldn’t see it yet. He heard the faint sound of the drums though, slowly beating the rhythm of the march as the parade made it’s way through the streets of Paris. On the opposite site of the road he saw some men in their 40’s. He made them out for Marie Louises, some still wearing faded, torn and patched up uniforms other in their scruffy civilian dress. He wondered if any of them had ever seen him in life, he had. He had marched with him, fought for him and if necessary he would have died for him. He still had the scars to prove it: the sabre cut from Jena, the part of his ear he lost from shrapnel at Austerlitz and the bullet an inch from his heart which nearly killed him at Borodino. He could hear the sound of the hooves approaching as the parade nearly reached him, then he saw the men carrying the banners. Great tricolours tipped with golden eagles. Eagles that had once marched across Europa and put the fear of god into the hearts of all enemies of France. As he looked up he saw the great carriage approaching, a grand structure topped with statues carrying a coffin on their hands, drawn slowly forward by more than a dozen horses. All was covered in gold apart from the black shrouds covering the coffin. As he looked at the horsemen preceding the carriage one face struck him as familiar. It was older and greyer than he could recall, but it was still very much him. A marshal of France, Soult one of the emperor’s last marshals still alive. A relic from the times that a lowly merchant’s son could make it to a marshal of the empire. As the carriage drew nearer his eyes fell on the crowd again. On the far side of the road an old man in a ragged blue greatcoat had pushed himself to the front. The people near him looked in awe at the man’s towering bearskin. Lasalle noticed the man’s ragged uniform: the red epaulettes nearly falling of his greatcoat in which he counted at least three bullet holes, the old man’s bearskin had several clear patches where the hair had fallen out. All of it was ragged and worn, all except for the golden earring in his left ear and the legion d’honneur pinned to his chest. The Marie Louises had noticed him now too, they exchanged baffled looks and hushed tones. It was one of them, the old guard. Far all they knew this man had fought everywhere; stormed the bridge at Arcole, stood in the squares in the shade of the pyramids, carried the eagle up the Pratzen heights or braved the horrid Russian winter and made it back alive. That man would have lost so much Lasalle thought; his friends to the snows of Russia and the bullets of all of Europe, his country to the men he had once liberated it from and his emperor to the cold clutches of death in some place far away he had never heard off. Lasalle saw the man stiffening to attention as he slowly disappeared behind the carriage. He looked up at the coffin on top of the great structure as a single tear rolled down his cheek. ‘All the forlorn glory’ he thought, ‘Never again would such an age come to France, never again would the eagles march like they had done all those years ago.’ As the carriage passed him he turned around and made his way back through the crowd. He walked along the street to the river. He looked into the Seine leaning on one of the stone railways as he closed his eyes. His thoughts drove back to those days, his ears filled with the sounds of guns and the drums beating the pas de charge as he slowly mouthed the words again: ‘’Vive l’empereur, vive l’empereur.’’

[hopelesswanderer1789]

4th Dornish War

It was late in the day and the sun was starting to set as lord Boremund Baratheon looked out over Cape Wrath, before him the Dornish fleet was preparing to make landfall. The sea was covered by hundreds of ships, from troop transports to great war galleys carrying the colours of Dorne. Several great warships stood out by their brightly coloured sails and banners, all the lords of Dorne were at sea: Jordayne, Yronwood, Qorgyle and many more, but above them all rose the great banner of the prince of Dorne. Prince Morion Martell had come for war and besides his lords he had also brought a host of sellsails from across the Narrow Sea. Dorne had been slighted and the young prince came North to these rocky shores for blood. The Stormlord was anxious, the Dornish forces outnumbered him three to one. He could have waited longer and gathered more men but then the orders from King’s Landing came, march to Cape Wrath to meet the Dornish with whatever forces he had and march quickly. And so lord Boremund had marched his 7.000 men out of Storm’s End to meet the enemy in the field. After a forced march of several days the men of Storm’s End stood arrayed on the shores of Cape Wrath, the great yellow banners of house Baratheon above them flailing in the wind. ‘The landing that’s where we get them, the landing, they can’t get a beachhead.’ The Stormlord murmured to himself. The entire battle would depend on the Dornish securing a beachhead to allow reinforcements in, get a secure beachhead and prince Morion could bring the might of his numbers to bear. On the Dornish flagship the prince was thinking the same and to those ends selected the van. He would be in the first wave, leading from the front. He would take the Uller and Yronwood men with him in the first attack. Men started to climb down ladders into the rowing boats which would take them to the shore. The prince stood on the quarterdeck overseeing his men filing down the ladders, a confident grin nearing arrogance appeared on his lips as he turned and looked to the shore with eyes like a predator about to pounce on its prey. He beckoned for a servant to give him his helmet and as he took it the air was pierced by a shrill shriek and a roar that echoed through the sky. The prince looked up at the sky and to his terror he saw what beast had made the noise. Lord Boremund opened his visor and gawped at the sight before him, the king had come and he was not alone. They came diving down, three of them the sun at their backs. King Jaehaerys dove down, the light of the dying sun glistening on Vermithor’s bronze scales. Beside him were his eldest sons Aemon and Baelon both riding their own dragons, Aemon on Caraxes and Baelon on Vhagar the great dragon ridden by Aegon’s sister Visenya during the conquest, a colossal beast. The three men and their dragons plunged to the earth, Vhagar was the first to pull up and unleash her fiery breath on the Dornish ships. Panic struck in the Dornish ranks, the prince was desperately shouting orders. Men we’re running to ballista’s and scorpions trying to get a fighting chance. Archers sent their arrows flying knowing they could do nothing but finding solace in action. Caraxes swooped down and lifted a rowboat full Uller men out of the water only to drop it 50 feet later. Vermithor the Bronze Fury unleashed a firestorm on every ship unlucky enough to be in his path. All around ships were burning and men were screaming out of pain and hopelessness, some braves manned the scorpions and tried to fend off their attackers. Aemon veered Caraxes away as a salvo of ballista darts shot past them, merely missing the red dragon. Aemon turned her around and flew head first towards the ships which had just fired at them as Caraxes unleashed a terrifying roar and set the ships alight. Baelon steered Vhagar over a cluster of Yronwood ships gripping one with her claws and ripping it apart as she sprayed fire over the others. On the shore the men of Storm’s End could do nothing but stare at the sheer destructive powers displayed before them, the Dornish didn’t stand a chance. As the ship to his right burst out in flames prince Morion shouted desperately for his men to rally. The rowboats were filled with men making a mad dash to the shore preferring to take their chances with the Baratheon host. Men jumped into the water many unable to swim but trying to stay afloat and make their way to land. Captains on the surrounding ships were trying to get a hold on their men to steer the ships away hoping that they could still escape. The prince saw half a dozen sellsails steering away to the East seeming to make a succesfull escape until he looked up and saw Caraxes break away to hunt down the escapees. He saw Vhagar hovering above a score of troop transports raining down fire as he turned towards a mighty roar, Vermithor was coming straight for his flagship. The king had spotted the great Dornish banner from the corner of his eyes and had steered his dragon to head for the Dornish princeling. Morion drew his sword and ran to the bow roaring his defiance, the great dragon was closing in. As the prince ran to the front he could see the dragon opening his mouth and he could see the light of the fire about to engulf his ship. The words were circling through his head: ‘unbowed, unbent, unbroken.’ He kept running, he did not know what to do against this great dragon with but a sword, but with the foolish bravery of his young years spurring him on he knew he had to face his enemy. Once he climbed up to the forecastle he could go no further, he stood there sword in hand seeing the king approaching being able to make out the silver hair and the black and red armour of his attacker. Looking into the dark eyes of the bronze dragon quickly drawing nearer. He dropped his sword as the dread took over and he stood there frozen as he and his ship were swallowed by the fires. Sunset had turned into night though to any onlooking eye there was no difference but the disappearance of the sun. the flames of the Dornish fleet lit up the night brightened by sporadic bursts of fire as one of the dragons found another victim. From the shore the Baratheon men could hear the screams and wails from the dying survivors of the slaughter which were occasionally drowned out by the roar of a dragon. Lord Boremund Baratheon looked out on the fiery seas. He thought he might die today, perished at the hands of a Dornishman, but by day’s end it were the Dornish who were slaughtered and not one men of Storm’s End had lifted a sword. He knew his house words boasted about the fury of a Baratheon, but this night he knew that his fury or that of his ancestors wasn’t the one to be feared the most. That would be the fury of the dragonkings, for Dorne wanted revenge but all they got in the end was fire and blood.

[hopelesswanderer1789]

The battle of the Trident

And it was than when the armies clashed in the river that the Stormlord finally layed eyes on the Dragonprince, clad in armour black as the night his chest adorned by red ruby’s shaped to the dragon of his house. The Dragonprince recovered his sword from the dying body of one of his enemies as the Stormlord’s challenge bellowed across the river; ‘Rhaegar!’ ‘face me, you whore’s son!’ The prince opened his visor to get a better look at the giant of a man charging his way, the man was steadily trudging through the water which was sloshing against his knees. The sunlight bounced between the water of the river and his shining steel plate armour, over his chest he wore a great yellow surcoat emblazoned with the black stag of Storm’s End and on his helmet he bore two great antlers. With a giant Warhammer in his hands he made his way to the Dragonprince leaving a mess of blood and broken bones in his wake as several men tried to stop him and paid with their lives for it. The Wrath of Robert Baratheon was not something to be taken lightly and if there was someone who in Robert’s eyes deserved every bit of it, it was Rhaegar Targaryen. The man who had kidnapped the woman he loved, and had taken what Robert held most dear. Now all the anger which had filled Robert for these last months was to be unleashed on the prince. And thus the two men met each other in the waters of the Trident fighting for the woman both claimed to love. Robert struck first splintering the Targaryen prince’s shield, as Rhaegar casted it away he brought his sword up to slid between the Stormlord’s plates, but for his strength Robert was fast as well and sidestepped the lunge as he forced the prince back with another great swing of the hammer. Rhaegar veered away and nearly lost his footing, Robert tossed his shield away and gripped the hammer firmly as he shouted his defiance at the black prince. As a shard of sunlight reflected through his visor, Rhaegar’s purple eyes seemed to glow and Robert’s turned to a fiery red. Time and again the dragon and the stag swung at each other until the air was pierced by the sound of steel on steel and Robert’s hammer smashed the Dragonprince’s visor clean off his helmet sending it and the rest of the helmet flying into the water. The force of the blow sent Rhaegar tumbling backwards into the water after it. As he saw the fire in Robert’s eyes Rhaegar reached for his sword, but to no avail. Ever since Robert’s forefather Orys Baratheon adopted the words ‘ours is the fury’ the Baratheons had made sure that all in the Seven Kingdoms knew it and now it was time for Robert to show to all the Seven Kingdoms that it was his. For the last few months Robert’s dreams were filled with the sight of him standing over the dead Targaryen prince’s corpse, and with that sight stuck in his head and a mighty roar Robert launched the great hammer forwards and with one swing he brought the warhammer down on the Dragonprince’s chest and shattered the dark steel sending the blood red ruby’s flying into the sky. The air could be heard leaving the prince’s lungs as bone and steel alike shattered and lay open to the wind and waters. And in the red waters of the trident with men around him madly looking for the gemstones which donned his armour Rhaegar Targaryen died with a woman’s name on his lips as a sad smile slowly abandoned his face. And with the dying of day so died the last dragon as he and his men left a feast for the crows.

[hopelesswanderer1789]

The people that die leave holes in our lives, we may try to fill them but we never really can. We just have to accept that they are holes we have to learn to live with, now you don’t have to be alone in coping with this. We all have holes, we all have empty chairs now only filled by memories. But the thing is, look at the chairs that aren’t empty, but remember the times when all those seats were filled. Live but don’t forget, for after all, the ones that we love never really leave us. They are the memories you think of when you look at those empty chairs, they are those faces you will always remember. Just carry on, but never forget.

[hopelesswanderer1789]

Not all who wander are lost, or at least so they say. Sometimes those who wander are lost, not because they can’t find the way, or they’ve lost the beaten path, but because they want to. They walked the path thousands have walked before them and thousands will walk after them and at a certain point they stood still and thought , why? They wandered off because it was not enough for them, the forest might be a scary place and clinging to the path might be safe, but for some of us the path is a cage. Some of us want to stray. Some of us will venture into the dark, they are not afraid to leave the light, they will make their own.