Welcome to the Anthology of Anything, a series of short stories with no specific theme. From original works to fanfictions, these stories are for everyone and anyone with different passions. We got everything from the classic fights of both man and...
The bells began to toll. Loudly, they clanged together in a hypnotic rhythm; the panic-stricken bell ringers quickened as they looked out the windows. Outside of the Church of St. Adnor the Wanderer, thousands of people ran to the front of the abbey; many more were coming closer, ready to break down the doors if they needed to. They did not know what was happening, only having been told by Father Abbot to ring the Bells of The Roaming Bishop as loud as they could. They didn't bother questioning their Abbot's orders.
As the bells in the first towers struck up a cacophony, other churches, and abbeys scattered across the city of Qarzzle aided in their call. As far as the eye could see, the outside of the Capital city's walls was overflowing with refugees, survivors, and escaped slaves, all of whom had fled the onslaught of the invasion. The walls surrounding the Capital were massive and reinforced; its glistening sandstone and granite blocks almost sparkled in the dim light of the twilight sky.
The rooftop battlements had soldiers scurrying like ants, making their way from one end to the other. Some were by the ramparts, passing out weapons to any man who wore the armor of the Flying Griffon, their coat of arms: everything from spears with long saber-like blades, swords neatly shaped by master craftsmen, bows and arrows affixed with small explosives that sent shrapnel scattering with each hit, and repeating muskets and rifles forged by Dwarves— the only people with mastery over the might of gunpowder.
Oups ! Cette image n'est pas conforme à nos directives de contenu. Afin de continuer la publication, veuillez la retirer ou télécharger une autre image.
The Dwarven allies were also quite adept at cannons, having fought the near endless hordes of the goblins for thousands of years. Many such cannons were stationed on the ramparts, being cleaned by the gunmen while they carried boxes of ammunition to their crews. While the walls and surrounding villages were being prepared for the worst, the entire city was in a state of chaos.
The Capital City of Qarzzle had stood in the Bay of Dragons for hundreds of years. Always expanding throughout its long history, it stretched from its standard townhouses located throughout the northeast marketplaces to the closest neighborhoods of the city limits. Villages had sprouted outside the walls to farm crops and raise livestock to feed the residents. What had once been a community of Abbeys and small towns was soon a sprawling metropolis home to thousands; now, barely a few hundred still remain.
For many years, the ports had been full of boats and trading ships, selling goods from distant lands for the best prices. Today, they were all but empty. No trading vessels entered into port this dark day. Only galleons and the ships of the Royal Navy were left as crews loaded civilians onto the sturdy boats, hoping to escape to someplace that would take them in. Some ships would only take wealthy merchants who refused to part from their valuables; one ship would only take women and children but left the men who were seen as strong enough to fight.
The little remaining city guardsmen not stationed on the ramparts managed the evacuation, bargaining for everyone to get on the boats, despite how much the salted sea captains were being paid. The afternoon sun was unbearably hot; sweat dripped off of everyone's faces. Many fights had broken out. Employees who had been trying to get their families on the boats attacked their merchant masters; others, more concerned for their own well-being, pushed bystanders out of their way. Qarzzle's guards did everything they could to keep the peace— but eventually, it began to look futile.
