OOC: Yo. I'm trying out my fledgling setting, the Armorican Kingdoms. If you haven't looked at the thread, and, indeed, read it thoroughly, don't join. Because, if you don't, I'll be irritated.
The sun's rays lanced through ragged clouds, outlining the jagged fangs of peaks, snow glimmering like a crust of diamonds on their sides.
Cliffs, natural pillars, and deep chasms stood embossed against this vista, the endless landscape of stones and snow and mountains fading into a blue-gray eternity in the faraway.
Between two cliffs and over a yawning chasm was posted a mouldering rope bridge, strung by some adventurer in times forgotten. A single figure passed painstakingly across this crumbling hanging.
He had the light brown hair of an Alsson, high cheekbones of an Arcturan, and the aquiline nose of both. He wore a patchwork mixture of Arcturan Legionare armor and barbarian furs, a reflection of his mixed Arcturan-Alsson heritage, with a curved yataghan blade from the southern land of Zucchara.
Alssonus Proximo Gracchus, always wanderer, always adventurer, oft-times gladiator, frequent outlaw, and currently, enemy of the Tuath Mourna tribe of Alssons, finished his crossing and stood at the north side of the swaying rope bridge, looking back down the opposite cliff at the approaching band of Tuath Mourna, wearing their green-dyed wool kilts and wolf skins to cut the cold, waving iron broadswords and shouting their fiercest war-oaths.
"Black Heart of Julius!" Alssonus spat. They were too close. He could not evade them. But wait...The solution was so obvious.
With a two quick strokes from the adventurer's yataghan, one mouldering rope snapped, the bridge flopping sideways, rotted planks and shattered icicles tumbling into the abyss below.
"DAAAAAHG DUN MAEEEEEEEEEEEEEE...." came the scream of one of the Alsson persuers, a call in the Tuath Mourna dialect of Alsson saying 'Strength to me'.
"How do you like that, you dogs!" shouted Alssonus, raising his blade into the air to taunt the Tuath Mourna who raged at him from the opposing side.
"Daedrach-vorrachefang perche! called one of the barbarians. 'Demon-worshipping pig!'
"Whess ieun tur ma-ma!" Alssonus shouted back, laughing, a bright smile upon his face. 'Just like your mother!'
Alssonus tossed one last rude gesture in the direction of the Tuath Mourna, then departed down the path, really merely a stone hogback fenced on both sides by deep chasms. Alssonus looked forward. There the hogback joined a cliff-face, where two narrow paths wound out of sight along the great bulwark of the mountain.
Alssonus stepped down the left path, but did not see the crust of ice.
As he plummeted from the cliff path, he thought "Black Heart of Julius!"
Climbing from his landing spot in a crusty bank of snow, Alssonus shook the stiffness out of his limbs.
He appeared to be at the bottom of the chasm which he had plummeted into.
"Black Heart of Julius!" he cursed, and began to extricate himself from the snow. Below, on the rocky, snow-less floor of the abyss, lay the unfortunate Tuath Mourna who had dropped earlier.
"Poor bastard." Alssonus said, closing his eyes. He took two copper coins from his money pouch and placed them on the Alsson's eyelids. "Good journey to the Underworld for you, barbarian." he said, saluting the corpse.
Then, off he marched. Somewhere, there had to be an exit from this wretched canyon.