LINES-World of Magic
- Thread starter Lord_Iggy
- Start date
dragon13
Chieftain
Hey, when's the next update? 
dragon13
Chieftain
good... i have my orders in, right? 
Kozmos
Jew Detective
No it means I'm reporting you to the mod the next you post such a useless spam post.
The Strategos
Thanatos
- Joined
- Jul 21, 2002
- Messages
- 1,175
Edit: In case it isn't clear, the events of this story took place soon after the events of my last story and before events of the last update.
Carthalo wiped his sweaty palms on the side of his tunic. A sea breeze tugged at his cloak, vainly attempting to cool him. It was not so much the heat that was causing his discomfort, but the need to wear dress up, preventing him from wearing something more appropriate to the weather. On his head rested a golden helmet. The cheek-plates came down, covering most of his face. A sky blue crest adorned the top. Covering his torso was an ornate golden breastplate. Around its top were several ornate spirals, a dancing swirl of lines. Below this was two giant circles that had smaller circles inside them, which themselves had even smaller circles that fit over the upper chest. In between these two circles, filling the tempting gap was a small palm tree, its slender trunk moving between the gap before its branches erupt outward above the circles. Below this, was an image of the goddess Tanit. On her head rested a crown, signifying her lofty status. From this crown her hair cascaded down in rippling waves. Behind her was an image of the sun, its rays bathing her in a halo of light. Underneath this breastplate Carthalo wore a simple white tunic, bordered with the slightest purple band, signifying his position as a governor. Overtop all of this was a light blue cloak. On his legs he wore golden greaves. Around his waist was strapped a sword sheathed in a bejeweled scabbard. In his hands he carried a simple rod, the symbol of his rank of general.
Carthalo was standing on a chariot. It was pure white with golden trim around it. It’s bronze hubcaps sparkled in the sun. Two steeds were hitched to the chariot. The one on the right was white, the one on the left was black. Their coats shined from the attentions of several stablehands who had thoroughly brushed their coats just that morning. Both pawed the ground, slightly impatiently, though they were well enough trained that that was their only movement beside the occasional toss of the head. Beside Carthalo was the driver, a slave from a far off land. He was an imposing sight. Towering over Carthalo’s own figure, his dark black skin gave glittered in the sun from the oil he had just recently applied to his skin. Layers of gold necklaces were clasped down his throat. He was topless, his muscles rippling as he made small movements to reassure the horses. Gold bracelets embraced his arms, and several golden earrings fell from his ears, making every movement of his a jingling mass of metal.
Carthalo’s chariot was merely one participant in a long train. It was near the middle. Ahead of him, at the beginning were several heralds on foot. Blowing on loud trumpets, they continually cried “Behold Carthalo and his army, the conquerors of Sardinia!” Behind them was drawn up an honor guard made up of the finest looking troops the city of Karthage could muster. Though fully armed and armored, each of them carried a spear upside-down to signify that they had not participated in the campaign that the triumph was honoring. Behind these men was Carthalo’s own chariot. Surrounding his chariot was an honor guard made up of men who had distinguished themselves by their deeds in the campaign. To signify this, each carried a golden shield as well as a spear with a golden tip. In addition, a golden chain hung from their necks. Behind these were the rest of the soldiers from the campaign. This number was not all who had taken part and lived. Instead, they constituted the part that remained unwounded, or those whose wounds could be easily covered up so that the grandeur of the triumph would not be marred.
Behind these men came the spoils of war. First were the captives. Surrounded by guards, they shuffled along. Each was connected to the one in front of him by a golden chain connected to their necks. Each one of these was covered in raiment and jewels that would have made all but the richest Karthaginian jealous. These of course were not their original clothes. Instead they had been dressed such as to present a spectacle for the crowd, to impress them with the barbaric splendors of the people Karthage had destroyed. Several also had their face painted, while yet others had fearsome scars across their face, “proof” of their ferocity in battle that was only overcome with great trial by the bravery and skill of the Karthaginian forces. Behind them was cart after cart, a train that stretched as far as the eye could see. Each cart was seemingly overflowing with the spoils of war. That most of the carts were filled with rubbish with only the top layer actual loot was a fact that no one in the audience would ever find out. Carts carrying captured weapons, gold, jewels, raiment, and other spoils of war continued in an endless procession.
On Carthalo’s left and right were the giant harbors which supplied much of her wealth. Before him was an isthmus, about two to three miles wide that separated the harbors. Rising from the ground to imposing heights were the walls of Karthage. Forty feet high, thirty feet thick, the walls protected Karthage from any invader foolish enough to attempt to attack her. As the procession passed under the cavernous gates in the walls, the sky was blocked out momentarily. As they emerged on the other side, a thunderous cheer met them.
This was not the sleepy fishing village it had once been. Buildings rose up around them, some as high as six stories. From every window hung ribbons, reds, blues, yellows, whites, fluttering in the breeze, adding a festive color to the buildings. From the windows citizens hung out, adding their cheers to the throngs below. The narrow streets were made even narrower by the crush of humanity that welcomed their heroes. Carthalo looked behind him at his men, noticing that the military precision of their march beginning to break down. The men were finding it hard to maintain their perfect ranks with willing women rushing from the crowds to place flowers around their necks. Some also placed kisses on the men, some lasting several seconds before the women would run laughing back into the crowds. Thus distracted, the march slowed down considerably the ranks becoming looser, more strung out.
Carthalo let them enjoy the perks of the march until they reached Temple Street. There he gave an almost unnoticeable hand signal to his second-in-command Salicar, who was leading the marchers. Seeing the signal Salicar immediately began barking out orders. “You there, straighten out that line. You let go of that girl, this isn’t the courts of Tanit, and she is not a temple whore, this is a military march and you are a soldier of Karthage. Lift up that shield, are you a unshaven boy that it’s to heavy for you?”
By taunts, orders, and curses, Salicar managed to reform the lines in time for the last leg of the journey. The crowds fell became silent in respectful awe as the victorious army arrived before the temple of Baal. There, gathered to meet them was the High Priest of Baal, along with the priests of every other god and goddess with a temple in Karthage as well as the representatives from each of the Noble Houses who ruled Karthage. Dismounting his chariot, Carthalo began to ascend the steps to the temple alone. Reaching the top he raised his voice.
“Hail Mighty Baal, and the priests that serve him. Hail all the gods and goddesses of earth and heaven and everything between and those that faithfully serve them. Hail Noble Rulers of Karthage. I, Carthalo, present to you the conquerors of Sardinia!”
The crowd, silent up to this point erupted in cheers. “Karthage! Carthalo! Karthage! Carthalo!”
Carthalo held up his hands for silence. “As a thanksgiving offering to our Divine Protector Baal, who has been our shield and sword, protecting his faithful while scattering our enemies before us like chaff in the wind, our army wishes to present half of our spoils of war, a thanksgiving offering for our success and wellbeing.”
The High Priest of Baal stepped forward. He was an elderly man, frail enough that two junior priests had to assist him as he walked forward. Lifting his hands in a blessing he said. “Baal accepts your offering Carthalo, who have been a scourge to the enemies of Baal. May Baal reward you as much in this life as he will the next.”
At this the crowd erupted in cheers. Turning around, Carthalo acknowledge the adoration of the crowd. At his nod, his troops broke ranks and went to amuse themselves the best they could. It was a good bet that none of them would have to buy drinks tonight and they would have their pick from willing beauties who would wish to warm their beds.
A page gently tugged on Carthalo’s arm. “My lord, the nobles have assembled and they wish to speak to you regarding the proposal you had submitted to them earlier.” Nodding his head, Carthalo allowed himself to be lead away, resigning himself to be cooped up with petty nobles for the rest of the day. Longingly he gazed at the crowd where his men had disappeared into. Shaking his head, he steeled himself to fulfill his functions to ensure the eternal might of his home.
Carthalo wiped his sweaty palms on the side of his tunic. A sea breeze tugged at his cloak, vainly attempting to cool him. It was not so much the heat that was causing his discomfort, but the need to wear dress up, preventing him from wearing something more appropriate to the weather. On his head rested a golden helmet. The cheek-plates came down, covering most of his face. A sky blue crest adorned the top. Covering his torso was an ornate golden breastplate. Around its top were several ornate spirals, a dancing swirl of lines. Below this was two giant circles that had smaller circles inside them, which themselves had even smaller circles that fit over the upper chest. In between these two circles, filling the tempting gap was a small palm tree, its slender trunk moving between the gap before its branches erupt outward above the circles. Below this, was an image of the goddess Tanit. On her head rested a crown, signifying her lofty status. From this crown her hair cascaded down in rippling waves. Behind her was an image of the sun, its rays bathing her in a halo of light. Underneath this breastplate Carthalo wore a simple white tunic, bordered with the slightest purple band, signifying his position as a governor. Overtop all of this was a light blue cloak. On his legs he wore golden greaves. Around his waist was strapped a sword sheathed in a bejeweled scabbard. In his hands he carried a simple rod, the symbol of his rank of general.
Carthalo was standing on a chariot. It was pure white with golden trim around it. It’s bronze hubcaps sparkled in the sun. Two steeds were hitched to the chariot. The one on the right was white, the one on the left was black. Their coats shined from the attentions of several stablehands who had thoroughly brushed their coats just that morning. Both pawed the ground, slightly impatiently, though they were well enough trained that that was their only movement beside the occasional toss of the head. Beside Carthalo was the driver, a slave from a far off land. He was an imposing sight. Towering over Carthalo’s own figure, his dark black skin gave glittered in the sun from the oil he had just recently applied to his skin. Layers of gold necklaces were clasped down his throat. He was topless, his muscles rippling as he made small movements to reassure the horses. Gold bracelets embraced his arms, and several golden earrings fell from his ears, making every movement of his a jingling mass of metal.
Carthalo’s chariot was merely one participant in a long train. It was near the middle. Ahead of him, at the beginning were several heralds on foot. Blowing on loud trumpets, they continually cried “Behold Carthalo and his army, the conquerors of Sardinia!” Behind them was drawn up an honor guard made up of the finest looking troops the city of Karthage could muster. Though fully armed and armored, each of them carried a spear upside-down to signify that they had not participated in the campaign that the triumph was honoring. Behind these men was Carthalo’s own chariot. Surrounding his chariot was an honor guard made up of men who had distinguished themselves by their deeds in the campaign. To signify this, each carried a golden shield as well as a spear with a golden tip. In addition, a golden chain hung from their necks. Behind these were the rest of the soldiers from the campaign. This number was not all who had taken part and lived. Instead, they constituted the part that remained unwounded, or those whose wounds could be easily covered up so that the grandeur of the triumph would not be marred.
Behind these men came the spoils of war. First were the captives. Surrounded by guards, they shuffled along. Each was connected to the one in front of him by a golden chain connected to their necks. Each one of these was covered in raiment and jewels that would have made all but the richest Karthaginian jealous. These of course were not their original clothes. Instead they had been dressed such as to present a spectacle for the crowd, to impress them with the barbaric splendors of the people Karthage had destroyed. Several also had their face painted, while yet others had fearsome scars across their face, “proof” of their ferocity in battle that was only overcome with great trial by the bravery and skill of the Karthaginian forces. Behind them was cart after cart, a train that stretched as far as the eye could see. Each cart was seemingly overflowing with the spoils of war. That most of the carts were filled with rubbish with only the top layer actual loot was a fact that no one in the audience would ever find out. Carts carrying captured weapons, gold, jewels, raiment, and other spoils of war continued in an endless procession.
On Carthalo’s left and right were the giant harbors which supplied much of her wealth. Before him was an isthmus, about two to three miles wide that separated the harbors. Rising from the ground to imposing heights were the walls of Karthage. Forty feet high, thirty feet thick, the walls protected Karthage from any invader foolish enough to attempt to attack her. As the procession passed under the cavernous gates in the walls, the sky was blocked out momentarily. As they emerged on the other side, a thunderous cheer met them.
This was not the sleepy fishing village it had once been. Buildings rose up around them, some as high as six stories. From every window hung ribbons, reds, blues, yellows, whites, fluttering in the breeze, adding a festive color to the buildings. From the windows citizens hung out, adding their cheers to the throngs below. The narrow streets were made even narrower by the crush of humanity that welcomed their heroes. Carthalo looked behind him at his men, noticing that the military precision of their march beginning to break down. The men were finding it hard to maintain their perfect ranks with willing women rushing from the crowds to place flowers around their necks. Some also placed kisses on the men, some lasting several seconds before the women would run laughing back into the crowds. Thus distracted, the march slowed down considerably the ranks becoming looser, more strung out.
Carthalo let them enjoy the perks of the march until they reached Temple Street. There he gave an almost unnoticeable hand signal to his second-in-command Salicar, who was leading the marchers. Seeing the signal Salicar immediately began barking out orders. “You there, straighten out that line. You let go of that girl, this isn’t the courts of Tanit, and she is not a temple whore, this is a military march and you are a soldier of Karthage. Lift up that shield, are you a unshaven boy that it’s to heavy for you?”
By taunts, orders, and curses, Salicar managed to reform the lines in time for the last leg of the journey. The crowds fell became silent in respectful awe as the victorious army arrived before the temple of Baal. There, gathered to meet them was the High Priest of Baal, along with the priests of every other god and goddess with a temple in Karthage as well as the representatives from each of the Noble Houses who ruled Karthage. Dismounting his chariot, Carthalo began to ascend the steps to the temple alone. Reaching the top he raised his voice.
“Hail Mighty Baal, and the priests that serve him. Hail all the gods and goddesses of earth and heaven and everything between and those that faithfully serve them. Hail Noble Rulers of Karthage. I, Carthalo, present to you the conquerors of Sardinia!”
The crowd, silent up to this point erupted in cheers. “Karthage! Carthalo! Karthage! Carthalo!”
Carthalo held up his hands for silence. “As a thanksgiving offering to our Divine Protector Baal, who has been our shield and sword, protecting his faithful while scattering our enemies before us like chaff in the wind, our army wishes to present half of our spoils of war, a thanksgiving offering for our success and wellbeing.”
The High Priest of Baal stepped forward. He was an elderly man, frail enough that two junior priests had to assist him as he walked forward. Lifting his hands in a blessing he said. “Baal accepts your offering Carthalo, who have been a scourge to the enemies of Baal. May Baal reward you as much in this life as he will the next.”
At this the crowd erupted in cheers. Turning around, Carthalo acknowledge the adoration of the crowd. At his nod, his troops broke ranks and went to amuse themselves the best they could. It was a good bet that none of them would have to buy drinks tonight and they would have their pick from willing beauties who would wish to warm their beds.
A page gently tugged on Carthalo’s arm. “My lord, the nobles have assembled and they wish to speak to you regarding the proposal you had submitted to them earlier.” Nodding his head, Carthalo allowed himself to be lead away, resigning himself to be cooped up with petty nobles for the rest of the day. Longingly he gazed at the crowd where his men had disappeared into. Shaking his head, he steeled himself to fulfill his functions to ensure the eternal might of his home.
Kozmos
Jew Detective
Lord_Iggy said:
Care to make him some pancakes as well?
dragon13 said:aww sorry
Its okay,just dont do it again as the mods will probably notice this without me informing them.
Kentharu
Zebra Commander
ORDERS SENT YEA!! 
i hope my orders aren't to er, short
have fun reading them and if you have any question (you probably will) then feel free to ask for anyother lengthy explanation
YAY FOR STRATEGY!!
i hope my orders aren't to er, short
have fun reading them and if you have any question (you probably will) then feel free to ask for anyother lengthy explanation YAY FOR STRATEGY!!
Cleric said:
Use the '
Moderator Action: dragon13 - warned for spamming
Edit: Whoops, wrong button.....
das
Regeneration In Process
Das is a figment of your imagination. He is sending orders now.
Kentharu
Zebra Commander
writing a story so WAIT!!! it will be done but i have to get images for it!!
