Family History

Mr. Cheeseymuffin

Lived in Era 40 and got 1 heir(s) (Cheeseymuffin).
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Mr. Cheeseymuffin

Lived in Era 40, got 1 heir(s) (Meatball) and was a member of Heaven
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Sir Meatball

Lived in Era 41, got 1 heir(s) (Mithras) and was a member of Guild Of The Fallen
Meatball breathed.

That first breath was the start of a great struggle, the struggle for survival. From his birth he was threatened, part of a group of people cast out from society. The rulers of the area were unfair and cruel, but apart from those people few were brave enough to oppose their rule.

With no other options available, they fled.

By this time Meatball was five years old. Unable to understand what was happening, only that he was in danger, he was carried from the city by his father. It was only as he grew older he began to understand the danger he had faced, and the oppression that still affected those still in the city.

He lived his life by his father’s side, learning all he could. For his father was the leader of this group of people, and for good reason. He could inspire hope in people who were seemingly beyond help, sunk into a pit of despair. It was from these people, these outcasts, he chose his people. Away from the city, his influence grew, until he was leading a group of people just as large as the one they had left behind, if not even larger.

It was at this time that Meatball’s father died. The rulers that they had left behind had heard of their people, and sent an assassin to kill Meatball’s father. The day he was buried, fire burnt in Meatball’s eyes. There would be a reckoning, soon in coming, brutal and swift.

******
Meatball strode among his people, looking from one side to the next. All around was the sound of metal clashing against metal. Some from men practising swordsmanship, others from where the blacksmiths were working, forging more metal into the shape of swords and shields. He nodded to one of his tacticians as he passed, looking on approvingly as he ordered a large group of men in attacking formations. There were the only men on horses there, the few amount of mounts they had managed to secure. Still, the people they marched to attack had never used horses, so even a small number would have a devastating effect if used correctly. All the men had bows, and small lightweight swords.

He entered a building, one of the only ones they had constructed. Building their own settlement could wait, but for now revenge was all that mattered. Once past wrongs had been righted they could prosper and live in peace for many generations.

Meatball greeted each man present, and then they began to discuss various tactics, discussed many times before. Eventually Meatball spoke, this time not going over something already discussed. The moment had come. “There is nothing else we can do to prepare. We shall march in three hours time”. At once everyone around the room began muttering to each other, and after a few minutes it ceased. One man stood, breaking the tense silence that had developed. “I will go and ready my men” he said, then hurried from the room. In seconds the rest followed suit, pouring from the room like water released from a dam. Meatball was alone. He nodded to himself, and then also left. He was pleased with how things were proceeding, but he did not smile. He would not smile until the people who had killed his father had been wiped from the face of the earth.

****
The day of the battle. Meatballs men marched in perfect order, heads held high. The cavalry rode slightly ahead, in several groups. Every few minutes a man would detach from each group and bring back news to Meatball and his generals.

Meatball cursed when he heard the latest scouts reports. His enemy was far larger than anticipated. Almost twice as large as his own forces. But he would not stop, not now he was so close. He could almost see his father dying again in front of him, a blade buried in his back. Then the man who had wielded it, throwing a knife in his direction then fleeing. Meatball rubbed the scar on his shoulder where the knife had hit, then gripped the hilt of his sword. He would not be denied after all those years.

“Cavalry advance” He ordered, and as one they grouped together and charged towards the enemy. Just as they reached enemy ranks they swerved, so they were riding alongside them. Then they let loose shafts of arrows, cutting ragged holes in the front lines of the opposing army. Immediately they galloped away again, out of range of enemy fire.

The rest of the army was now close enough to make out the individual ranks of the enemy. As one they surged forward, and met their enemies with a roar. The most experienced soldiers were at the front, Meatball realised, and the men who had only ever held a sword a few times in their lives at the back. Those men were the peasants, who took up arms and fought when the need arose.

Panic rose up in his chest as he realised his men were being pushed back. He pushed forward. Then he was amongst the enemy and killing, his battalion behind him. His blade flashed, blood dripping from it as he struck again and again, a frenzy settling upon him. He began to laugh, his eyes burning as he was lost in vengeful joy at finally striking back at the men who had killed his father.

As he looked on the men from behind, the peasants had begun to attack their own soldiers. Finally tired of the oppression that faced them, they had chosen a new life. Meatball continued to fight, not noticing the small injuries he sustained in his lust for blood. Finally there was only one man left, the commander. He stared around at the destruction in disbelief, and then all emotion emptied from his face.. Several men advanced, but Meatball called for them to halt.

“He is mine,” He stated, eyes burning with hatred. He began to unbuckle his armour, and threw down his shield, till he was standing in only simple linen garments. His opponent did the same. Then they came together, the sound of metal on metal ringing out. All around men shouted, encouraging Meatball, insulting his opponent. Meatball heard none of this; so intent he was on his opponent. With a snarl Meatball smashed the hilt of his sword into his opponents face, bringing him to his knees. With a howl of triumph he swiped his sword, beheading the defeated man before him.

But as he did so, an arrow plunged into his chest. One enemy had survived, and taken revenge for the defeat of his comrades. Immediately dozens of blades hacked at his body, until it was unrecognisable. But their grief was not yet spent, and the whole army turned to the city. Even when the sun had set long ago, there was a glow on the horizon as the city burned long into the night.

Mithras, son of Meatball watched on. Then, when all was destroyed, he gave the order to march.

Duke Mithras

Lived in Era 42, got 1 heir(s) (Mithras The Psycho Bear) and was a member of No Pulse
http://visual-utopia.com/kdvskd.asp?

Duke Mithras The Psycho Bear

Lived in Era 43, got 1 heir(s) (Mithras Harrison Ford) and was a member of No Pulse
Mithras sat in his cell, staring blankly at the opposite wall. He shifted slightly, trying to get comfortable, but the movement only served to irritate his skin further. The sand was everywhere, in his clothes, hair, stuck to his skin; covering the rock hard floor he was sitting on. How he hated the sand. The buildings made of sandstone; the terrain for miles around was sand, and little else. He looked crushed, a man with no fight left in him.

As he sat there his eyes glazed over, and he was no longer sitting in a dark, cramped cell. He was instead riding on horseback, and at his back were the one thousand men he had been given to lead. Around him, to his left and right, there were many other groups of one thousand men, each with a single man riding in front of them- their commanders. In the very centre was a powerfully built man, his gold coloured armour glinting in the sunlight, his long sword stretched out in front of him as he held his arm aloft. Pride swelled in Mithras’ chest, and he looked hungrily at the city in the distance, its walls rising high out of the ground.

As they neared the city the ground became softer, as the earth slowly turned to sand, until they were forced to a slow trot, their horses tiring as the their hooves sank deep into the sand with each step they took. It was then that the first flash of doubt crossed his mind about their position. But still, he reassured himself, their source had told them the city was so poorly defended that this would not make a difference. There was good reason to trust him, too, for he had been well paid for his trouble.

An order was given, and all along the lines the horses halted. Mithras held up his hand, and at his back his men halted. He looked along the line to the centre of the column, and followed the three men riding along the line in his direction. There were also three riding in the other direction, away from him. Each stopped and began to talk to one of the men who had been placed in command of one thousand men, and Mithras watched the last rider left as he approached him. He nodded to him, and then waited to hear what orders he had been given. “You are to take your men out wide, to the edge of the trees. You will then enter the trees, and wait until you are given the signal to move, three blasts of the horn will signal you to engage. Then you will drive into their flank.” Ten minutes later, the signal came. Spurring his horse on, Mithras galloped out of the trees, crying wildly as he did so. His men followed, and as they neared they neared the sounds of battle filled their ears. As they got closer, the sand once again slowed their advance. Finally they reached the enemy, and the clamour of steel clashing against steel rose up to meet them.

Mithras stirred and looked around. He was once again sitting in his cell, staring at the opposite wall. The guard was changing once more, meaning it was midnight. Mithras forced himself to wake up, and started to prepare himself for the night ahead.

He began to listen intently, waiting for the man watching over him to slip into sleep. He could not see the guard; the light just in front of him hid him from view, as it was too dark to see beyond it. The light was also aimed in his direction, so that none reached back and picked out the features of the guard. The only way he could tell if the guard had fallen asleep, as he did every evening, was by the change in his breathing.

A few minutes later the guard began breathing slowly and deeply, and no movement could be heard. Mithras stood, and using the key he had stolen from the man three days before when he had first been imprisoned let himself out of his cell. He walked quietly over to the man and took his dagger from him, the only weapon he was carrying. The guard woke to the cold touch of his own blade against his skin. He took this in, and could not find anything to comfort him. Certainly not the merciless eyes staring out at him, shining in the light.

“Where are my weapons?” Mithras murmured quietly, still holding the dagger against the unfortunate man’s throat. When there was no reply, he pressed down slightly harder with the blade, drawing a thin line of blood across his neck. “Where are they”? He repeated. “Over there, through that door” he whispered, his voice shaking. “The keys are on the ring hanging from my belt”. Mithras nodded, and took the keys. He quickly retrieved a long, curved sword, a bow and a quiver of arrows. He threaded the sword’s sheath through his belt, and sheathed his sword for the moment. The dagger he tucked into his belt.

Not wanting the man to raise the alarm, although he almost doubted he would have the courage to attempt such a thing, Mithras tied him up quickly. He left the guard there, staring after him. It would have been easier to kill him, but Mithras could not blame him for becoming imprisoned. Nor could he blame any other guards he met that night, only their master. But he knew that any other man he met would have to be killed, for they would not be sleeping, and they would attempt to kill him if they saw him.

As Mithras climbed up the stairs he could hear voices above him, talking quietly. There were two men sitting outside the only exit to the prison, the latest of the men sent to guard it. He drew his sword and crept up the steps. Then, when he reached the top and had them in his sights he leapt forward and attacked. The first man did not even have time to turn round, killed instantly by a blow to the back of his head. The second got only a little further. His blade was halfway out of its sheath when he fell beside his companion, their blood soaking into the sand.

Mithras looked around at the rooftops, making sure no one had seen the confrontation. As he walked he continued to do so, and listened carefully for any sound of approaching men. He did not head straight for the city gates. Instead he headed further into the city’s centre, in search of the stables. He would not get far outside of the city without a mount; as soon as it was realised he had escaped he would be run down and killed.
As he came closer the buildings were not as tall as before, and more widely spaced out. There were also more men in the area. The stables were next to where the ruler of the city lived, and so the closer anyone got the harder it was to go any further, even if you weren’t a wanted man.

Mithras reached the stables without incident, although he knew that would not last long. He gripped the hilt of his sword tightly, and, loosening it in its sheath, he strode forwards confidently, trying to look as though he had every right to be there. Just as he had thought he had made it, the challenge came. He opened the stable doors and was just about to step inside when a voice came from behind him. “What is your business here?” came the question. From the way it was said it was obvious the man had asked the same question many times that night, and many times on other nights before that for as long as he could remember. Only before tonight, that question had only ever been a formality, and as a result he did not pay close attention to the person who he was addressing.

Mithras turned slowly, without answering. He drew his sword quickly and brought it down, chopping into the man’s shoulder. He screamed as he fell, then the sound was cut off sharply as Mithras put his hand over the mans mouth and at the same time drew his sword across his neck. But the damage had been done. He heard shouts and men running towards him.

Quickly he mounted a horse and kicked its flanks, then again harder when it only walked forwards slowly. This time he got a better response, and the horse leapt forward. He sprang out of the stables and right into a group of men. The horse reared up, almost throwing Mithras from its back. He managed to stay on and swung out at one of the men, who parried his blow and stabbed at his arm. Mithras gritted his teeth and suppressed a moan as the blade ran along his arm, drawing blood. Once his horse was back under control Mithras struck out once more, this time his blade cutting deep into the mans wrist, making his drop his sword. Others closed in around him and he backed his horse up as they attempted to encircle him completely, lashing out with his sword at anyone who got too close as he did so. One man darted forward, cutting at his thighs. Mithras spun his horse round, whipping his sword across as he did so, aiming at the man’s head. The blow struck home and his attacker fell back.

Mithras now urged his horse forward, using its size and weight to force a way through the line of men. In trying to encircle him they had left only a line one man deep, and he brushed past and galloped towards the city’s exit. As he did so he heard a cry behind him; one man had come too close and been kicked in the chest by the flailing legs of the horse as it galloped away.

As he returned back into the closely packed streets closer to the city’s edge, Mithras could see many people staring out at him as he passed. Mithras was forced to slow to a trot as he manoeuvred through the cramped alleyways, searching for the outer wall. Behind him he heard shouts as men raced after him. It was now to his disadvantage being on a horse; he could be seen easily and it was now slower than being on foot in the narrow alleyways. Eventually he found the outer wall, and a small door cut into it. Two men, one in his fifties, and the other soon to come of age were waiting beside it, ready to conceal the exit with several large stones as soon as Mithras had ridden through. He nodded to them, and took a bag of provisions from them. He then left quickly, trotting out onto the plains surrounding the city. He would see them again soon enough, for they were to leave the city the next day and rejoin him. The only reason they had been in the city was to bring him word of the planned escape, and to prepare his exit. They were but two of the many people who had been involved in the attack on the city, the younger had fought, while the older had helped to plan the assault.

Mithras Looked ahead of him, at the line of trees on the horizon. Safety. Before he reached them however he had many miles of desert to cross. Yet more sand. With a slight smile that almost turned into a grimace he urged his horse into a canter, leaving the city behind.

Duke Mithras Harrison Ford

Lived in Era 44, got 1 heir(s) (Mithras) and was a member of No Pulse
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Duke Mithras

Lived in Era 44, got 1 heir(s) (Mithras) and was a member of Vortex

Duke Mithras

Lived in Era 45, got 1 heir(s) (Mithras of Arunun) and was a member of Guild of the Fallen
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