Sorry, was going to post earlier, but someone shut my comp down while typing a reply.
First off, OH MY GOD. Best essay... Words... Bluemage... Kill... Epic...
Anyways, let me get this straight. Blue gave you four words, and you constructed a complete and revolving storyline? Als, I saw that the thing you wrote looked like to be the first post in an RP. I was thinking more on terms like a opening paragraph to describe the RP in here, but, now that I think about it, I might want one of those kick-off things to post in the beginning of an RP. In fact, I'll take both. Can you specfiy what specifcs that you need? Perhaps a landscape, period of time, magic affiliated? Royalty, tribes, war backstory? Some kinda conflict? Perhaps some animal-like creature rush? (ZERG RUSH)
And finally, I can believe your skill. (Another underestimated user... gotta start observing) How much do you charge?

Checklist:

-High Medieval

That's not a lot to go on, or rather that's telling me to go nuts with the story and setting. Which for your information, I already have. When do you want a draft? Quickest is on Tuesday. That is if you add to the checklist by Sunday at 00:01 GMT +7.

Suddenly, I feel insulted. A shame I can't accept your soul as payment. I accept credit though.

Whoops. So there were no firearms. Great.
Additionally, I was not aware that Monday was a religious holiday... Stupid calendar.
Other than that, I trust your judgment on whatever you're writing.

Do you take tips?

A troubled kingdom indeed. It was not so much a civil war as a massive uprising. At first they were only minor disturbances, run-ins with the local guards, small disputes that were not worthy of any attention. Everyone was woefully unprepared for the near simultaneous eruption of violence. From the north, the descendants of the Tartar and Nordic tribes brought their axes to bear, the east, the local spear militia backed by the ever secretive assassins known as "Ninjas" rose up, to the south, the desert raiders of the steppes seized what they could with their skill with bow and speed on horseback. Word spread throughout the kingdom, propagating the violence like wildfire as the rebellion advanced closer and closer to the capital. There were many leaders under the rebellion, each with their own personality and style however it was unanimously decided that the commander of all rebel forces was Streke the Conqueror. A veteran of past wars, Streke still looked youthful, with gentle yet firm features, long dark hair styled with a small pony tail and radiant chestnut brown eyes. As the sole undefeated force of rebels he was gifted with the title of Conqueror as he trampled over everything on his way to capital.

They had poured in to the town below the final ring in this fortress of a city and found it deserted. Naturally, the defenders had pulled back, forcing the great number into the narrow city streets. From the base of the last bastion to the town it over looked was barely four score metres that banked downwards. The design was wicked in its intent to make sure the attackers paid in as much blood as they could. In reality, this design was never put to the test as even foreign armies never made it past the front gates before giving up and turning back. It was late at night on the eve of battle that Streke stood in the middle of the main avenue staring up at the battlements that he was to assault. Would tomorrow bring victory or defeat? Streke smiled, such was the way of war that he had not given up betting his life on it. As the rays of sunlight slit through the murk of darkness, he turned back to fetch his spear and shield. There were not just the battlements to take, but the Library of Davor and the Royal Armoury that flanked the palace as well. They were stepping stones as they slowly make their way up block by block. As is the custom in warfare, there would be only one meeting between commanders that would involve no bloodshed.

"Karl, it is a pleasure to see you again," Streke greeted.

"I certainly did not expect you of all people, Lord Streke," Karl answered, "What is it that this rabble that has forsaken the Queen could possibly want?"

"Questioning my motives again," Streke remarked playfully, "Well you certainly haven't changed but neither have I. As for this rabble you're referring to, they're grumbling about the Queen forsaking them, or something or another. I don't pay too much attention to politics. It's a bunch of hogwash you see. I fight the good fight because I can, not because I have to."

"I guess it is too much to ask for a peaceful surrender then," Chambellan said as he put his palm to his face.

"Don't disappoint me."

With that, negotiations were over and the fighting was about to start. Streke had moved back to the war council and announced the attack to begin. The first wave of ladder carrying infantry scurried over slope. It was to their misfortune that hidden wooden stakes emerged from the ground, impaling them. There were only a narrow passage that led to the gate now. Ladders were useless if infantry could not climb them and Streke ordered the ram brought up.

It was a simple ram and the chosen ones to crew it were the former 77th Pavise Crossbowmen unit. A pavise is a shield that covered the entire body of a soldier. It was bigger and heavier than a tower shield making it impractical for actual combat; strapping them to the backs of crossbowmen to shield them whilst they reloaded was a better idea. Streke now wanted them to use the pavise in another way. As instructed, the men used the shield and constructed a makeshift roof above and walls around them. Streke had read that long ago such a formation was widely used and was successful; with the peace that followed in the ensuing generations it soon faded in to obscurity. The defenders were in for a rude surprise from the unique twist he added to it.

With such a unique formation that was impervious to light missile fire, the ram reached the gate which shortly came crashing down. Advancing through the gap, defenders tried to attack the formation but it was in vain. In response, the front of the formation opened and crossbow bolts were fired from within. Surprised and helpless the defenders pulled back as the formation finally broke open to a mass of charging spearmen. The gates had well and truly been breached.

Acting Knight-Commander Karl looked down the streets from where he was in the palace, readying to leave with the last of the Forlorn Hope. They may have been criminals but now they were loyal defenders of Her Majesty. The irony was not lost on him as he replaced his red cap with a barbute. Bec de Corbin in hand, he marched out to them. They were still in the square, their zweihanders planted in the ground waiting for him.

"Men, a glorious victory awaits!" he announced.

The cheering rose. A glorious victory indeed but he was too inexperienced for this the young Karl thought inwardly. His real rank was that of Knight-Captain, as befitting someone his age. Unfortunately for him, everyone short of the royal family had already been taken by surprise and slain. Stealing a glance back at the palace he might never seen again, he saw the young Princess Genevieve staring at the battle with a melancholy unmatched. It must be hard for her to see fellow country men slit each other's throats. Going out to retrieve her smile was another reason for him to come back. The cheering died down as they moved out.

This was the result of consorting with the dark powers. Worse of all, it had to happen in the capital city. Well at least the corruption was contained within the palace grounds, sort of. Streke didn’t even know where to start and he was supposed to be the hero of the kingdom. Streke the Conqueror as he was known was the first to heed the call to arms once news of the horrors assaulting the capital from within reached his hometown where he had retired. The whole kingdom mobilised quickly to counteract the threat, well aware of what the ruinous powers were capable of.

It was to their collective horror when the true cause of calamity had revealed itself. Her Majesty the Queen had bargained for more than she could handle and the darkness had completely overtaken her. Streke remembered the last time they met. It was the first time he had stepped in to the capital since his glory days and he was shocked at what he saw. Her Majesty was still recognisable in the dark robe she wore underneath the royal mantle but from her attire emerged tendrils that corrupted at the touch. An unlucky few had mistook her as sane and safe but as they got within range of the tendrils their cries of agony from the mutation they suffered still rang within Streke’s mind. As if challenging the rest to follow, she beckoned before disappearing back in to the Royal Palace.

Common knowledge dictated that the way to banish the darkness was to cut off the source, which was where it was able to breach this world in the first place. Regicide was a capital crime but given the circumstances, the gathered had decided that it was better to live a short while in chaos as the succession fights ensued than have the very stuff of nightmares rule over them. Each week a new group of brave and/or foolhardy volunteers went in, few ever came out and even those that did were driven mad, recounting tales of the horrors they faced inside the mangled interior. Apparently, Her Majesty the Queen had hired a new interior decorator. Not even the descriptions of the survivors correlated leading to the conclusion that it was now a labyrinthine complex; only the truly worthy would face her.

Now it was his turn. Streke could no longer simply sit by idly and thus commenced the search for brave and worthy comrade in arms. Many answered his call but most were found wanting. It was not a test of arms but a gruelling set of trials. One trial consisted of diving in to the depths of a nearby lake to find a fresh-water pearl. Not only was the water ice cold, but the depth at which the fresh-water oysters lived was at great depth where the silt of the lake stood still making for great pearls. It was when he found out that these pearls were actually be sold at the lakeside by a local pearl diver that he went to confront this enterprising spirit. The pearl diver was a common woman of low-standing birth, who dived daily to fetch her wares and he offered her an opportunity to move to the next part of his trials. It was then that the peasant woman named Perrine seized the chance for adventure to better her condition and became the first comrade in arms of Streke the Conqueror.

The second man was a rather quiet man. Formerly a bandit of the lower steppes, a few years in the dungeons had mellowed him out by the time he escaped. He sold his sword, or rather, his crossbow and pavise for a hefty sum, and upon hearing for the chance of a pardon for his crimes in vanquishing the darkness, he became eager to find a master worthy of himself. Borcha was what he introduced himself as, and with the base cunning and experience he had in fighting and evading the law, earned himself the second spot within Streke’s retinue.

The third to join Streke was a young Knight-Captain of the Royal Guard. A spitting image of Streke himself in his younger days, the young man known as Karl was determined. Many at the war camp had passed him off as little more as an overenthusiastic youth with no experience and hence never considered sending him in to the palace with the others. Nevertheless, it was his willpower that allowed him to succeed where others had failed.

These were only but the first three to join Streke. It was only the night before they set off that Streke would find the young Karl training whilst the others were bidding farewell to loved ones and enjoying perhaps their last night in the company of good men. As he observed Karl, Streke came to worry about him. Karl wielded a zweihander, a weapon reserved only for those with great strength or one with a clear disregard for personal safety. Each swing, thrust, even movement perfectly calculated and honed to an edge. It was in a sudden urge that Streke took out his spear and shield and ran up to the youth, intent on sparring. Karl was in mid swing as Streke closed in and seeing a new far more corporeal opponent, stepped inside Streke’s thrust and carried the momentum of his swing in full circle. Steel rang upon steel and Streke felt the power through the metal of his large round shield. Pulling back and adopting a defensive position, Streke issued his challenge; and it was, with more flowing swings, neither a pause nor gap in the attack. It was the ninth swing that dislodged his shield from his grip and he reached for his sidearm, a short sword. Though this unusual combination would see a more cautious warrior pause Karl did not hesitate and swung downwards. As Streke was once taught, a real fight lasts only two seconds before it is over and decided to teach the youth the same lesson. The downward swing is an easily caught move due to the zweihander’s weight. Unable to change direction quickly, Streke caught Karl’s blade with the hilt of his sword and his spear. It felt like his fingernails were about to be ripped off from the force of the blow but he held firm. As the pain subsided, he used the zweihander’s weight against Karl, twisting his trap downwards and using his body to throw his opponent off balance. Falling back, the next thing Karl was aware of was the spears length that he looked along until he met Streke’s face.

“A real fight lasts only two seconds, use your time wisely,” Streke said.

The young man looked defiant and no less determined to even the score if given the chance.

“Easy now, you should save that for what awaits us beyond the palace gates,” Streke started as he lifted the spear away and offered a hand that was taken, “What are you fighting for that makes you so determined?”

“For Her Majesty,” Karl replied a bit sullen but continued quickly before Streke could ask, “No, I fight for Her Majesty the Princess Genevieve. She is still inside, and she is still waiting for me.”

From his pocket, Karl produced two matching rings. The sunlight from dawn that had silently crept up upon them reflected brilliantly on the ruby and the sapphire.

“Then let us not keep her waiting any longer,” Streke said, “Pick up your weapon, we are leaving.”

The assembled men and women gathered around Streke and as small line of gathered wished them off. As the palace doors opened, all took the first step inside together. This was where Streke the Conqueror and his retinue walked out of the mortal plane and ascended in to legend. This was their story, the story known only as Infernal Rage.