The Republic of Erimir
Current Leader/Government: Grand Sheriff Beryl Moss (Elective Republic)
Settlements Owned: 3
Provinces Owned: 1
Population: 179,000
Standing Army: - <Erimir Infantry>/<450>/<Stationed at Shireguard><Morale 85%>
- <Republic Musketeers>/<500>/<Stationed at Shireguard>/<Morale 95%>
- <Provincial Militia>/<1300>/<Stationed at Shireguard; also stationed in Erimir and patrolling the countryside>/<70%>
Lumber, Iron, Wine
Exports: Cattle, Gunpowder
Wealth: Average
Alliances:Trade Pacts: Kingdom of Asax, Kingdom of Belmorn, Kingdom of Scharweilt, Kingdom of Elslen
Cease Fires: Kingdom of Elslen
Tactics and Politics“If it were up to me, we would strike in the night and fire on them as they sleep,” Tommen said forcefully. “We need to remove the threat and-”
“They’re in a
fort,” interrupted the High Sheriff, brushing her brown hair away from her face. “We can’t very well sneak into a guarded fort. Fighting them in the open is our best option.” The halfling woman gripped her sword’s hilt a little more tightly, then turned to look over at King Dryadson. “What do you think?”
“My Glade Watchers could sneak into that sorry excuse for a fortification in broad daylight, but,” Dryadson paused, his face unmoving and still, “but, I would rather the Orcs see their doom, than rout them with minimal losses to their kin.”
A concerned look came briefly over Beryl’s face. Tommen knew that look - she was keeping herself from saying something, but clearly understood more about whatever made the King so uncharacteristically vengeful than Tommen did. It wasn’t like her to keep secrets from him or anyone else on the Council, so…
why?“Minimal casualties are
precisely what my people want, fair King,” Beryl began slowly. “Our goal in the war is to force the orcs into peace talks, not to adorn our pitchforks with their heads.” She folded her arms over her chest. “We cannot lose sight of why we’re here, sir.”
King Dryadson sighed, and turned to look out of the flapping curtains of the pavilion's entrance. Beyond the opening, was a field of lush green, set before a stain on the landscape - Fort Bloodrend. He eyed it passively; his left eye ever so slightly spasming with untold emotional strain.
“I lost a good deal of my brothers and sisters, not a week ago, because of these wretches. My Kingdom has lost a good many more over the decades still, to the evil that these Orcs bestow on others,” Dryadson muttered, before turning back to the High Sheriff and her companions. “If it is casualties of your folk that concerns you, then worry not, my little friends. The Orcs will not reach us, not with my Glade Watchers at my back, and not with an open field like this for them to cross. Many will die, a great many yes, but Elf and Halfling kind will be unscathed.”
“It’s not just a worry for halfling blood being spilled,” Beryl continued. “It’s a worry for elf blood
and orc blood. We want to break their spirit, Marhorn. If we kill them all, we will not only garner unwanted attention from our neighbors, but will begin a cycle of hatred that will not end with our generation.”
Or we could just shoot them all, and there would be
no cycle, thought Tommen to himself. He didn’t say that, though. He also stopped to remember the orcs he’d fought alongside before the Empire’s collapse.
She does have a point, though. They would be more useful as allies than enemies.“How many slaves have passed through this land, I wonder,” the Elf King said, partially ignoring Beryl’s words, “how many broken bodies, forced to ply the fields, forced to entertain beastly wants. How much blood, of those who could ply and entertain no longer, is entrenched in that plain, right outside that little evil lair over yonder. I hear them, the cries of women, the curses of men, I can hear them. Much pain has taken place in Bloodrend, a pain you will not understand, High Sheriff. I am old, I have witnessed the depravity of Elslen first-hand and from afar. Diplomacy has failed at almost every level with these monsters, and they will not reason. They must be destroyed, the entire land must be purged. Slavers or not, I hold the Orcs here responsible for a million untold tragedies.”
“Killing an orc for every lost life won’t bring anyone back,” Beryl interjected, her tone softening a little. “It will not bring back our brothers, sisters, lovers… not our children.” She looked away, pacing slowly around the table. “Don’t think I don’t understand what the slavers have done. I travelled most of the continent before I became High Sheriff, and I’ve seen good friends die or get dragged away in chains by beastmen. I
know what is at stake.” The small woman turned back toward King Dryadson, her chin raised in determination. “We cannot let the slavers get away with what they’ve done, but remember that the orcs have families, too, and that there are nations watching what we do very closely. If we kill many orcs for the crimes of a few, are we any better than they are?”
King Dryadson shook his head, his lips trembling in a rage he could no longer contain. Beryl’s words seemed to have unnerved him, a very rare feat indeed, given the Elf King’s century-old reserve. For a second, it seemed he was prepared to draw the sword of his fathers, and strike at the little woman.
“Go to them, little Halfling!” He hissed, spittle visibly flying from between his teeth. “Offer them terms, offer them any terms you want. If they accept, I will oblige myself to accept them also. You will see, yes, you will see the reason that I, Marhorn Dryadson, King of the Green Host, King of Belmorn and son of the Great Meria Dryadson, have come to this resolve.”
With that, King Dryadson stormed from the pavillion with his hand gripped around the ornate handle of his ancestral sword.
“Whatever you did to upset him was a
very bad idea,” Tommen noted casually. “I would not be surprised if we end up fighting elves with your attitude.” He removed his helmet, running his hand through his sweaty hair.
“Some truths have to be told, no matter how harsh they are,” Beryl said sadly. “He has much reason to want to fight the orcs. I only hope that reason doesn’t blind him.”
“Or kill you,” Tommen added in an ever-so-polite tone. Hopefully, Beryl would get the point.
ParlayThe gentle slope of the verdant plains were, perhaps, too good for the brutes that called them home. The area about the fort was no paradise, but it was beautiful enough and well-tilled by the hands of slaves. The slaves themselves were all inside Fort Bloodrend now, probably, probably locked in cells to keep them from escaping during the battle so clearly on the horizon. On the spiked wooden walls of the fort were orcs with bows and javelins. Across from the fort were grim-faced elvish archers and halflings with slings and guns ready to launch their payload. In the middle of these two eager forces was a company no larger than twenty strong: Beryl and her halfling entourage holding high the banner of Erimir with a white flag of peace, and the Countess of Meria’s Rest representing elvish interests.
Most people in that band were watching the orcish weapons with lumps in their throats.
Anya Meadowsong’s heart beat calmly. Even arrayed against such possible doom, she was confident and indifferent. There were at least a hundred Glade Watchers within longbow range of Bloodrend’s parapets, and any attempt to harm her or her Halfling companions would be repaid in kind. Even if her chest was pierced by the crude and unforgiving javelin of an Orc, death was not something she feared. What she feared, was something these Orcs thrived on: to be enslaved and denied a life of relative freedom.
The Countess looked down at Beryl, who though bearing up under the strain of walking head first into a possible slaughter, was evidently unsettled.
“Look them in the eyes at all times, my lady, especially when talking. The Orcs respect strength, and little else; this is partly why they prosper in slavery. To them, a surrendered or submissive adversary is worse than scum, who deserve a life in servitude rather than a quick death,” she whispered, loud enough for only Beryl to hear.
“I don’t suppose they don’t look down on you if you need a stool to look them in the eyes?” The halfling managed a small smirk, clearly trying to make light of the situation.
Anya smiled at the small woman; impressed with her apparent stalwart courage. “We will be fine, my kin will not allow us to come to harm,” she half-lied, “just make a show of strength, remind them that despite your modest height, you command their fate today, and hopefully that’ll be the business concluded.”
As the party approached the Orcs, who were busily assembling into a rough battle line before the very gates or Fort Bloodrend, a black feathered arrow whizzed through the air and thumped into the moist soil in in front of Anya. She did not flinch, but stopped, and held up a hand to indicate that the rest of the group should hold.
Dressed in her Glade Watcher’s garb, Anya was a formidable figure of green cloth and brown leather. Thick blonde hair climbed its way down her front and back from the heavy hood that gave her some protection from both the rain and an axe-stroke. Her almost paper-white face was obscured from the nose down by a black scarf; an item of clothing usually employed to prevent her enemies from becoming too familiar with her appearance. It was not fitting for a Countess of Belmorn to be the mark of a Jourian or Elslen raiding party.
The Orc battle line parted down the center, and mounted upon iron-clad steeds rode three riders. They were dressed in heavy chainmail, lapped with plate. The lead rider, an Orc that appeared to be an easy eight feet in height, halted as he passed the last rank of his soldiers. To Anya, the thirty feet gap between herself and the Orc chieftains seemed to be terribly small.
After spending long and awkward seconds eyeing the Halfling company, the lead Orc burst into a fit of maniacal laughter. His voice was fierce, and full of iron. Some of the Halflings stirred uneasily, but others did their best to keep up a front of courage.
“Does the Elf King send children to arrest me?” he chuckled, “or perhaps he brings me a peace offering?”
“I think letting you live is a fine enough peace offering,” the halfling snapped back, sitting up high on her pony. The tone was unlike her - a transformation, to say the least. “Unless you’ve forgotten who routed whom, I suggest we drop the niceties and start making deals.”
“Bah, routed!?” The Orc replied, snickering. The riders that flanked him added their amusement. “You fight like cowards. You let those high ‘n mighty Elves take the beating, and then stabbed at our feet. If you fought like any respectable foe at all, you’d at least of left those little guns of yo-”
At that, the High Sheriff started dismounting, hitting the ground with a soft ‘thud.’ Her chainmail shifted softly. “Either get down to business,” she snapped, drawing her sword and pointing it at him, “or you can get off your animal and we can discuss what it means to be a ‘respectable foe’ on foot.”
Anya reached into her cloak, and placed her delicate fingers around the grip of a hidden blade. Her heart was calm no longer, and she was half certain the Halfling had tipped things towards violence.
The Orc however, did not laugh, nor did he speak. With a grunt, he jumped down from his mount in one fluid movement. The ground beneath him shuddered slightly under his bulking weight. With two thick hands of discolored flesh he removed his iron skull cap, revealing a face of mangled teeth and scars. It seemed evident that life had not been entirely gentle with the Chieftain.
“I am High Chieftain Brakkor Fellblade, Lord of all of Elslen. Former advisor to our late majesty, Emperor Almon IX. What,” he paused, regarding the Halfling with obvious irritation, “are you terms?”
Carefully, the halfling woman sheathed her shortsword. “First, Elslen must release its slaves and end the practice of slavery,” she began. “Second, the nation must agree not to raid the nearby nations of Erimir and Belmorn. Thirdly, it must make its iron available to Erimir and Belmorn for at least one season.” Pausing, the halfling glanced over at Anya. “Belmorn has terms of its own to present.”
At the mention of Belmorn’s terms, Anya stepped forwards and pulled aside her scarf. Brakkor regarded her closely, and then smirked.
“The Elf bitch has the floor,” he cackled.
Anya ignored the slight. “My Lord King Marhorn Dryadson I, demands you declare fealty to him. In retur-”
“Kneel before the Elven King of Belmorn?” interrupted Brakkor, with a hiss. “I’d rather die.”
“My Lord assures me that this can be arranged, High Chieftain,” fired Anya’s retort.
“Your fortifications are ill-prepared to deal with either an assault or a prolonged siege,” Beryl added to the talk. “Our terms are negotiable, but if we cannot reach an agreement, there
will be more blood.”
Brakkor was silenced, and he struggled for a response. It seemed he was desperately trying to not lose face in front of his warriors, whilst at the same time achieving his reign’s survival. This Anya could see from the look on his ruined features, and she pressed the advantage.
“The Halfling bitch speaks much truth, High Chieftain,” Anya said with a mocking smirk. “The war is over, my King will not hesitate to decorate Hadelmere Hold with the bodies of you and your kin, of this I can assure you. Better you accept his terms now, than answer to his wrath later.”
“No slaves. Dryadson’s lapdog,” murmured Brakkor, thoughtfully. “What kind of fealty, would my Lord Dryadson command of me?”
Anya smiled. Finally things were heading for their conclusion.
“You will demobilize your standing army, save for your personal guard and forces allocated to town watches - for law and order, you understand. You will be at his beck and call, and will be expected to work towards his benefit, and the benefit of the Belmorian peoples,” said Anya, triumphantly and sure Brakkor would submit.
“Seems fair,” replied Brakkor, “and in return, what does the Elf King give me?”
“Protection for your life, and the lives of your people. Wheat so that your people never again have to face a harsh harvest. Wisdom, so that you will stray from making decisions… unhealthy towards your people, and the people of others,” she finished.
“Balls to it. You want me to send my soldiers back home, where their finances will be in ruin from the cessation of our slave trade, and in return you will feed them and keep them protected? From who? Themselves? Your King has demonstrated a lack of understanding of Elslen culture. Doing this will destroy my country, and my peoples. This I cannot do. Die if I must, I will not yield the future of my peoples without fight,” said Brakkor, with an expression of steel-clad determination.
“Then instead of yielding your future to us,” interrupted the halfling, “why not bind it with ours?”
“Explain, Halfling,” replied Brakkor curiously.
“What would you say to Elslen being assured its future independence by Erimir?” the halfling began. “Elslen shall enter into a protectorate contract with Belmorn under similar terms: you shall have an army, but only a thousand of whom may act outside your borders without the express agreement of Belmorn. You may use this force to act abroad in your interests, but you must still forsake slavery and act according to the wishes of Belmorn. Orcs will still rule Elslen, however, and you will earn your total independence after Erimir and Belmorn agree you have developed enough and no longer need slavery to exist, with a minimum time in fealty lasting four seasons.
“Additionally, Erimir will take measures to ensure the orcs of Elslen are able to change. We will be glad to purchase the iron we desire from you, and will also open our cattle market to yourselves. We are willing to hire orcish soldiers to train our troops, and I assure you Erimir will pay them as well as we would our own kin.”
The halfling woman folded her arms behind her back. “King Dryadson has given me his consent to secure a treaty with you on terms
I feel are good for all parties. These are the terms I offer, and I think they are more lenient than the terms you will receive if you choose battle.”
Brakkar nodded thoughtfully. “And Dryadson will agree to all of this, you are sure?”
“He will agree,” the halfling said, “and I will see to it that his joint ruler agrees as well.”
“Good enough for me, little Miss. I accept. Bring me whatever it is I have to sign, and it is done,” he replied.
“There is one more thing,” interrupted Anya suddenly, “a matter of four Elves my Lord dispatched to hold a parley with you, three weeks ago.”
“What of them?” Asked Brakkar; a slight hint of fear edged itself into his face.
“He wants those accountable for their unlawful murder brought to him,” she said coldly.
Brakkar hesitated, tried to speak, but only a muffled grunt came from his twisted lips.
“
He who judges, carries out that judgement without aid. The second law of your peoples, I believe,” she replied.
Brakkar nodded. Beside Anya, the halfling High Sheriff looked between the two of them with a grim look on her face.
“Then those responsible lay face down in the grass at Witch Green Pass. Agreed?”
At first, Brakkar did not understand Anya’s words, but then grasped them and clawed at them feveriously.
“Yes, yes, I er, Chief Aknam, it was him,” he sputtered.
Anya nodded; she had betrayed her King’s trust, and spared the life of a soulless murderer, she was sure. However, she had saved fifty thousand Orcs by doing so. Dryadson would not have been pleased to hear his son had been decapitated by none other than the highest authority in all of Elslen.
