Bohaddon

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The March To War

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Blood and sweat were the only two things Vile could remember of the last few weeks. Well, that and shouting. Lots of shouting.

He had been in the dark hole. The deep, dark hole. Alone. Afraid. Then light came. The masters pulled him up, those glorious masters, they saved him from his misery! That's right! They said he was strong and brave and kind and good and other things but he forgot those. They didn't care about his missing arm, oh no, not the lovely masters! They gave him a weapon, a sword. Showed him how to fight the nasty lizards. Punished him when he did it wrong, but didn't kill him. The masters were too merciful to kill little Vile, even when he deserved it. So kind, so lovely. Then, because he was good, the masters let him fight for them in the real army that had arrived, he couldn't remember how many days ago! He could kill lizards for real now, serve the masters and repay them for their kindness. He couldn't wait!

A shout broke his frantic train of thought, and glancing around him, Vile winced, preparing for a beating. Through his pale, near-blind eyes he could make out the distinct features around him. Trampled mud lay underfoot, decorated by the ever-changing of pattern of men's feet as they came and went about the camp. When the rain fell, the imprints of boots filled with water, and Vile could look at his ugly reflection; it was a favourite activity of his. And he truly was ugly, with his slim, scarred green body, and dull features that offered nothing to arouse dislike amongst his masters. He had been bred to please them, even his name was a mockery of his very being. Vile realised none of this, for his mind was preoccupied with feelings of fear and worry. Several men had rushed past him frantically, hastily attempting to pull on greaves or grab a weapon. Vile scratched furiously at a large scab on the side of his face, desperately trying to understand the meaning of this. Thinking was bad, and he hated having to do it. Important things like that should be left to the masters, not Vile.

Fortunately, there was a master on hand to do just that. A boot smashed it's way into Vile's back and sent him sprawling into the squelching swamp below. "Get up you stinking bastard!" a gruff voice called out. "Time to die!" Rising, Vile was greeted by a short, pug nose soldier, who was missing several teeth. "We're marching to war you bloody idiot! Get whatever weapon you can, and form up on the front rank with the rest of your maggot friends! Move!" The order activated an automatic reflex in Vile, and he bolted into action, ready to obey. Clasping his rusty iron sword tightly to his chest, he hurried through the camp.

In his eagerness to please the masters, he hadn't realised he was marching to his death.

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Bahapore



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Krakon Forces


Horean Air Force




The Sea of Riches

The waters lapped silently against the pillars of the old wooden docks of West Hakon. Twenty merchants ships were currently docked at the old krakon city dock. They were full of the riches of Bahapore and neighboring nations, awaiting to set sail and trade their goods with foreign kingdoms and people in the far west. Many hoped to not only help the nation grow wealthier but themselves too. With each fleet of 4 ships would travel a diplomat with the hopes of trade pacts and as they sailed through the waters of Achnon, they would be escorted with a small collection of warships to their destinations. The closest with a two and the farthest, eight. The seas were dangerous, pirates, storms, and navies could easily sink and salvage one of the merchant ships. It was a dangerous mission that offered great rewards. One of the captains leading one of the fleets was Toros, youngest son of the local krakon lord. He had turned towards the life of a trade merchant instead of joining the army like many sons of lords. He started the largest trade fleet between Southern Bahapore and Achnon and Uaruneria and now he took an opportunity to start and control an entire trade route between Bahapore and The Kingdom of Asax.

“Hello there my son.” creaks an old voice from behind Toros as he yelled something to his men.

Turning around, Toros saw a long worn out krakon. “Father! what are you doing here?” he asked, the surprise clear in his voice.

“Why, to see my son off. It will be months before I see you again.” said Lord Tor. He coughed violently into the air. He was old and soon Toro’s brother would succeed him as Lord but you could barely tell that he was sick from a distance, he still had the natural muscular structure of a krakon and his dressed in common clothing that was loose and covered any sight of age.

“I don’t have much time to talk, the other fleets are already leaving. I have the farthest to travel and my men are still working. I only have a minute until we have to set sail.” says Toros, the urgency in his voice as he glanced back and forth between his men on the ships and his father.

Laughing his father said, “You always worked and worried more than your brother.” Glancing around, he whispers to Toros. “Don’t tell your brother but you should have succeed me. If only you were born a year earlier.” Hugging Toros, he says “Now get on with your mission. I don’t want to hold you any longer.”

“Bye father. I will visit once I get back.” yells Toros as he was already running to the ship.

Three of the ships had already set sail and the last ship was currently waiting for Toros, the plank was already rising as Toros jumped on board. The oars on the side of the ship started moving and soon the winds picked up and the ship glazed across the calm waters of the bay. Looking back, Toros saw his father watching him, his figure getting smaller and smaller as the ship distanced itself from the land. Due to the GA Agreement made between Bahapore and Achnon, their entire navy and army were under the control of any GA nation. Due to this agreement, Achnon was currently lending their warships to protect the merchant ships. They turned north and a small line that was the land of Bahapore flew past.

Asax, Edaria, Ahskos, and Elslen all accepted the trade pacts as the merchant ships reached their shores and ports. Four ships were lost as storms destroyed their hulls but their cargo was salvaged after calm waters came. There was still no response from the nation of Freywyn.

The Search for Echen

The news of the destruction at the Isles of Echen was months old. Any recent news from the isles had gone cold. Few escaped the rumored destruction and no nation, kingdom, or organization dared to travel there to see if the rumors were true and what really happened. There was no point in traveling to the Isles anyway as the dwarves that lived there or once lived there were always quiet and rarely traded or even left their small islands. But this wasn’t going to stop the leaders of Bahapore from venturing there, they would be one of the first targets if the Dark Elves were to come and in order to defeat them, they would need to find out as much as possible and that meant traveling across the entire stretch of northern Orysson. But they wouldn’t be traveling alone, they couldn’t spare many ships, as such they would send for one of their most trusted allies. An ally that has also been rumored to have spoken with the Dark Elves, it was a risky move but great risks came with great rewards. Council member Geward was already hard at working with preparing the Bahapore exploration fleet and extras if Uaruneria decided to decline the offer and the message was already getting sent.

Joint-Kingdom of Belmorn


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On Breaking A Spearhead

Ten Miles West of Fengarde

General Maraver of the Surgo House of Stoneheart marched the length of the trench. He was an anchor of calm amidst an unbearable chaos. Men and women hurried backwards and forwards, exchanging loaded crossbows for empty ones. Those who held a loaded crossbow, fired without hesitation – and much aim – before handing it back for another. Despite the piss-poor shape the aging Dwarf General had found them in, these humans were proving their worth tenfold. An arrow passed the Dwarf’s ancient face, but he did not flinch.

“They’re coming!” screamed a young woman; she was short, but taller than Maraver. He hid a smile at the ridiculous figure she presented, because the leather armour she was wearing was at least half a dozen sizes too big.

“Dancers, three lines of ‘em, General,” called Maraver’s watcher, who was until two weeks ago a very under talented farmhand.

“Dun gimme ‘lines’ lad, gimme numbas,” shouted Maraver in response.

“Over a hundred, General,” the watcher replied, as he pulled down his crude iron helmet.

“Aye, so just over a hundred lad? Or nearer a thousand?” said Maraver; his cracked lips formed a hidden smile beneath his bulging white beard.

The watcher hesitated, looking at Maraver, then peeking over the trench parapets, then back at Maraver again. The Dwarf stifled a hoarse laugh.

“Two hundred, General,” the watcher finally said with half-flouted confidence.

“Righty’o lads and ladesses, looks like it be time for round three,” roared Maraver. Women’s screams and men’s cheers greeted his words. “They burned your homes, slaughtered your Queen, murdered your husbands, and destroyed your livlihoods. Ya have nothin’ left to live for, so give ‘em no mercy.”

The Dwarf chanced a peek over the trench, by standing on a purpose built bench. A half dozen arrows whizzed past him – they Lizards were getting smart, they were starting to learn his habits – but he was not dismayed by what he saw. This was their third assault in two weeks, and it was just as half-hearted as the previous two.

Around five hundred Lizardmen archers stood a hundred yards away, hunched behind abandoned wagons, fallen trees and boulders. Anything that would provide them with cover from Maraver’s devastating and relentless crossbow volleys. Behind them, in thinly ranked but wide spread lines were a detachment of Sword Dancers.

“Hold fire, hold fire, let ‘em come,” ordered Maraver, as he descended from the bench. “Wait til ya can see the whites o’ their eyes, then hit ‘em all at once. I want everyone, even the wee children, with a crossbow, to line the edge of this trench. Don’t let ‘em see ya though, we don’t wanna be ruining the surprise do we now?”

Maraver’s motley band of militia-soon-to-become-veterans obeyed without question. All of those firing at the concealed Lizard archers ducked down. A few hissed whispers passed to and thro, and within minutes, the greater part of his ‘army’ had thrown themselves against the wall of the trench. Crossbows were clumsily loaded. A few boys, no older than six or seven, ran down the length of the trench to drop freshly loaded weapons.

“’Ite Timmy me boy, you’re my man, give us a holla’ when you can see the whites o’ their eyes, lad,” said Maraver. He clasped his leather-clad hands firmly behind his back and breathed a sigh.

The watcher’s eyes bulged, but he did not waver for more than a second. Carefully, he poked his head back over the trench so that his eyes were level with the dirt and watched. Seconds passed like days, and the tension built to the point that Maraver swore he could taste it on his tongue.

“I can see their whites,” shouted Timmy, all smiles.

Maraver nodded, but then clenched his eyes shut as he caught a glimpse of an arrow striking Timmy’s exposed neck.

“For every man or woman we lose, they lose ten!” Roared Maraver, punching a fist into the air. His army repeated his words in thundering unison. “Let ‘em have it, let ‘em have it all!”

Maraver’s troops brought their weapons over the top of the trench. A tense second or two passed as each of his three hundred nobodies took aim, and then there was the heart-rending release of the massed crossbow strings. In a blink of an eye, the old Dwarf was back up on his bench, surveying the slaughter with glee. The Sword Dancers, lightly armoured and with only wooden bucklers to protect them, had been cut to pieces. Half of their number lay on the ground, bleeding and screeching, whilst their comrades broke. He noticed an intense whistling sound, and looked up to see hundreds of arrows coming down on the trench.

“Cover lads ‘n ladesses, lest ye be fucked by an iron point,” shouted Maraver, throwing himself against the trench wall and making himself small as possible.

The barrage of arrows continued for some minutes, and a dozen or so of Maraver’s men left the fight permanently, but the majority had missed their marks. Maraver stood to his feet and smiled crazily at his troops, who responded with likewise expressions.

“We see another night after all,” he said. Timmy’s in spasm body caught his eye. “Take him away, gently now, and bury him with honour. He fought tha’ good fight, and his name’ll live on in the tomes of our tomfoolery!”

Maraver Stoneheart, second son of the deceased Dwarven Count Tremlin Stoneheart, was unwittingly becoming the saviour of an entire people. He had visited Fengarde three weeks ago, after hearing that the new human Queen was open to the possibility of intervening in Surgo’s civil war. When he arrived to attend a scheduled meeting between him and a council of human noblemen, he found a peoples of the verge of defeat. A Jourian assault on the city had fallen a week earlier, leaving many dead, and he was almost instantly certain that what remained of Fengarde’s defenders would not stand against a second attack.

Still, his clan depended on him. Without aid, they would fall to the terrorists that had proclaimed themselves the masters of Surgo. His peoples just did not have the men are material any more to fight a war that was destroying the very land they had bled to protect. So he had stayed, drinking crap ale and eating limp meat, hoping beyond hope that he’d get his audience – and that Fengarde would withstand the attack.

When the fires started, Maraver was no hero. He packed his things and left the city – hastily making for Hadelmere. However, on the way, he was shocked that so many thousands of refugees had only made such a short distance despite the time they had been given by their Queen to flee. Belmorn was a massive country, full of beautiful woods and blanketed with plains of green grass; it had no roads though, just paved bridleways, and this had no doubt contributed to the slow pace of the evacuation.

Driven by his good natured heart, the Dwarf abandoned his diplomatic mission in favour of rear guarding the refugees. Dozens of them sided with him, when he announced at the top of his old lungs his intention to ‘bar tha way to tha greenskins’. Whilst Queen Alistine fought for her life in Fengarde’s central square, Maraver and his company were busy digging earth works and collecting weapons from fleeing militiamen. By the time all was said and done, and Fengarde was reduced to ashes, a two-hundred foot long trench had been dug, straight through the bridleway. Heavy stakes had been shoved into the ground in front of it, to form a thicket of death to any mounted riders. Crossbows in their hundreds had been gathered, and Maraver planned to use them all to create a relentless rain of death.

The first vanguard elements of the victorious Jourian army came in the form of a thousand Sword Dancers. They had snickered at the sight of such a peculiar but feeble looking fortification, and attacked. Maraver’s troops, despite the little training they had, were able to release a devastating stream of bolts into their poorly protected forms. Only a few dozen actually made it to the trench, and though they were dangerous, the old Dwarf led his men and women to in successfully repelling them. Three hundred lizards had been killed that day, and only two dozen of his.

This victory sent ripples of news through the trail of refugees that had by now come halfway to Hadelmere Hold. This brought Maraver more men, and women, who upon hearing of his actions, had turned and marched back towards Fengarde. Within days, the wily Dwarf had accumulated three hundred souls to his non-existent banner.

He trained them day and night, when the Jourians weren’t attacking, and soon had them well versed in the use of crossbows and the ‘fast fire’ tactics he was employing. When the second assault came, backed with archers and stone throwers, Maraver was ready. After an hour long barrage, and several casualties, the Lizards made a frontal assault. Breaking from cover, Maraver’s troops repeated their earlier use of massed crossbows, and drove the Jourians back once more.

The second victory brought dozens of human rangers, who had fled Fengarde, to his call. He dispatched them to the nearby woodlands, to watch for Jourian flankers, and to harass them if able. All the while, the Elven army in Hadelmere, grand in its size and composition, was oblivious to his actions. He had broken Sar’Nassa’s momentum, saving thousands in the process, and buying time for the Elves to make their move. Though he was not of Belmorn, Maraver Stoneheart was a stalwart champion – the very stuff of valour, and to strangers, he was not afraid to show it.

Vanguar

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Jup, son of Harrow, seizes power in Mordun

The Harrowing
As Vanguar descends into the horrors of civil war, the Clan of Mordun remains still, though promised to fight to depose the iron will of Skar, High Chief of Vangaur. The recent loss of Vuun, the heir to Chief Harrow, lord of Mordun, has stalled any war effort as priorities shifted to selecting a new heir. Chief Harrow voiced solemn support for his last surviving son, Jup to lead the clan after his death. Many of the Clan elders, however, suspected Jup of being in league with Grimmhold and sent forth champions to challenge Jup. As tradition dictates, Jup would have to survive a contest of wits and might in order to hold onto his claim of heir, this contest is known as the Harrowing.

Of all the challengers, some two score in all, Jup emerged the victor. However, before the armies of Mordun could be mobilized, Chief Harrow suddenly fell grievously ill. Jup has ordered the lands scoured for skilled healers and potions to aid the ailing chief.

Scouring of the Crag
Despite attempts from General Stryke to stall and hinder the invasion forces marching into the Crag from Wycke, the army of rebels have managed to push back the loyalist defenders and raze the holds and villages of the Crag. The rebel army, numbering nearly 5000 have amassed just outside of Grimmhold and an assault is imminent.

Skar's War
For weeks Skar's invasion of Amplesh had been limited to fighting in the south of the clanship. The Amplesh Clans had surrounded Skar's forces upon a high hill and were content to deliver a slow death to the invaders knowing the civil war would keep help from coming. The Chiefs of Amples did not count on Skar's cunning, however. Residing to the fact that no help was coming, Skar changed tactics and began to flare tensions between the coastal Orcs.
Night raids conducted by Skar behind enemy lines have the Amplesh leadership pointing claws at each other, and the army holding Skar at bay has dissolved by in-fighting. Picking his moment, Skar has charged down the hill and pushed the Amplesh rabble out of the southern river valley, taking a firm foothold on southern Amplesh.
Despite the victory, Skar's forces are severely depleted and doubts are high that even the river valley can be held through the summer.

Bohaddon

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The First Victory

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General Callus looked around him in utter amazement. He couldn't believe what he was seeing.

On every side of him lay the ruins of the famed Hightower citadel. The mighty fortress that he had heard tales about from his youth had fallen. Each block of chiseled stone had been dismantled, cast aside like little more than a child's plaything. Mighty arches, towering battlements, spiralling towers, all had been swept away in the wave of destruction that that came with battle. And what a battle it was! Callus gave a weary smile at the memory.

They had attacked in the early hours of the morn, as the first rays of pale light began to emerge from behind the clouds. In this gray dawn they had marched, trampling grass, flowers and earthworms all, leaving death were there was once life. They spoke no words, for none were needed. They knew what they faced. A cunning and wise foe, one who fought not on the common battleground, but instead hid themselves behind the thick, impregnable walls of the Hightower Citadel. The Citadel itself was the first they saw of their enemy. Even in its partially ruined state, it towered higher than any structure the men had seen, it's pointed towers reaching up into the sky like the fingers of a dying man grasping for some last hope in the clouds. It was enough to make even the strongest man have his doubts in his abilities. After all, what could they, a half-starved, half-dying force, do against this fortress that had weathered battles immemorial?

But onwards they marched, to victory or death. Long before they reached the walls, the enemy rained their hail of arrows upon them. They ran then, coursing forwards in a mad rush, desperate to reach their enemy before they fell to their arrows. They poured through those cracks in the wall that the enemy had overlooked, plugging the gaps with their mass of bodies. The blood of the enemy became their second skin, coating every inch of their bodies. Lizard after lizard fell to their blows, as they drove them further and further to their doom. Slash, stab, parry, repeat. Slash, stab, parry, repeat. The soldiers fell into a rhythm, the enemies cries the drumbeat that kept them in time. Hour after hour they fought, until at last the enemy fell, fleeing before their awesome power. They had won. The Citadel was theirs.

And now Callus stood, in the shell of that great fortress, surrounded by the memories of once was. Pulling a half-ruined stool from under a collapsed table, he gave a sigh. This was what war was capable of. This was what he was capable of. Glancing to the splintered doorway, he saw a timid messenger standing there, looking as pale as a ghost. Chuckling softly he gestured for the lad to enter.

"General Callus, sir, I have word from Bohaddon. Frewyn forces from the west are to join us in the fight against the lizards. They are expected to reach us in several days. The Ducis has also asked for a report on the battle, but I can uh....see it was a victory for our men."

Callus considered the information, and then spoke. "Return to the Ducis and inform her that we will entrench in this position until Frewyn forces arrive. The battle was a success, but we expect more resistance now that we have proven ourselves a threat."

The messenger nodded and scurried away, and Callus looked around him once more. They needed to make this place worthy of the stories told about it once again. The Citadel would rise again.

Kingdom of Torfas


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Long Live High King Cryoss Soulfell VI

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The word has been spread, about the people of Elthana that living in a better situation than before, Elves that going on exodus after the war is going back to the place that always can be called Home.

Now, the streets in the city look more alive, which was once filled only by elves, now Orcs, Krakons, and Horeans was seen filling the streets of the city.

The Nation is growing faster each day, thanks to the trader from the other nations, Elthana once a nation that rely on his people, now a nation that manage his people to the finest.

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The Plague

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Death will come without ever warn, a sole soul can only be in sorrow by it's presence.

The word spread faster than a wildfire, some remote villages in an island far from the mainland is plagued by a strange and deadly disease, the visible symptoms is bleeding from the eyes and nose, severe headaches and vomiting.

The local authorities is acting fast according to this matter, by burning dead bodies that infected by the plague, and contain all of uninfected villagers in a sterile village.

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The Grand Fleet

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There will always be a state of calm before the storm rage.

That night, when the black ships is seen sailing to north, something strange came to Adaron mind while he watching the ships sail from the crow nest, Something isn't right, i must tell The King about this, his thought is nearly true every time, his instinct is somewhat strange, he can tell that something is going to happen when he in a deep reverie.

With a swift move, Adaron jump from the crow nest, grab a nearest rope, and with some jumping and swinging, he already in his deck writing a letter for the King, informing that the black ship has gone, but the danger is still on the air.



After the messenger sailing back to mainland, Adaron stare to the northern sea again, waiting for more signs.

A week after the message sent

The black ship is already gone from the North Sea, but its presence can still be felt in every wind gusts on the coast of Elthana. Since the ships has gone, the wind change a little, the air smelled like burned wood and the breeze is warmer than usual.

After the message is sent to the High King of Torfas, he order all dock to start producing ships for the preparation of the possible returning black ships, a week is far from enough to complete a ship, but the process is going, in six or seven weeks, the fleet will be expanded, from the amount of 40 light ships, 20 medium ships, and 10 heavy ships to 100 light ships, 50 medium ships and 30 heavy ships, this number still not enough for the fleet, the target is a fair amount of 250 light ships, 200 medium ships, and 100 heavy ships.

This plan however, cost almost all of the treasury, if only Torfas funding it, fortunately, Achnon Gnomes, Torfas Orcs, and Eltanian Elves is working on this project together, so the money and human resource problem can be solved.

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The Traveler Journal Part 1

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Day 1: A Long Voyage to Bahapore



Day 2: Ported

Joint-Kingdom of Belmorn


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King Dryadson I, Son of Meria of House Talia, Lord of Belmorn

Hadelmere Palace

“The Lizads have grown in strength,” said King Dryadson bitterly.

“Yes your grace. All Jouria is emptied,” replied Count Ferawl.

“They would leave themselves so vulnerable?” butted in Countess Anya.

“They mean to destroy us,” said Dryadson with a heavy sigh. “They know that Elfkind is weak, we are mere shadows of our former glory.”

“Since when did King Marhorn Dryadson I, son of Meria Dryadson of House Talia and Lord of Belmorn, care for glory?” asked Anya. Her face was placid; her words were not.

Dryadson’s burning eyes narrowed, and he glared at her for several seconds. “The moment the ways of our peoples faltered, casting darkness all around us. I urge all council members with an aversion to saving this land, to leave now, and never to return.”

To this, none of the nine Elven Counts and Countesses stirred. They looked on passively at their King, but their concern for him was evident in their eyes. He paid them no heed.

“Twenty Stone Throwers, you say Countness Anya?” asked Dryadson, leaving the drama far behind him.

“Yes your grace,” she said with a nod, “and with the rubble of Fengarde to arm them with, they will be a deadly force.”

“Agreed, your grace. Our archers will not stand long under a rain of flame and rock,” said Countness Mayine. “We will have to rely on skirmishing formations to minimise our casualties, but this will diminish the advantage of having so many longbows firing at once.”

King Dryadson I nodded. His right eye twitched slightly. “How easy would it be for Belmorn’s best to slip in behind the Lizards, and put to rest their Stone Throwers, Countness Anya?”

“Easier than draining a bottle of Hadelmere’s finest wine, your grace,” said the Countess with a weak smile.

“Good. Take the Halflings with you, if they are up for the challenge. I will not risk them on the killing fields. This is Belmorn’s battle, this is our war. Enough of their kind have died at my behest,” came Dryadson’s sullen reply.

“As you will, your grace. I will brief Marshal Tommen Taleteller, and return with his reply,” said Anya, bowing and moving with customary Elven grace towards the large oaken doors of the War Room.

“Wait,” shouted Dryadson, momentarily unnerved for reasons not apparent, “take this.” He held out his palm; a plain talisman of dark metal hung from his hand.

Anya bowed her head slightly, and took it from him. She gave it a once over and frowned. It was a perfect circle, embossed with the sigil of a crescent moon. It was the emblem of the Royal Elven House Talia. The Council members all gasped at the realisation.

“Excuse me your grace, but I do not understand,” said Anya, her words trembling with confusion. “This is for the blood of your line.”

“My line has ended, Anya, as you are well aware. I doubt I will father another heir too – I am far beyond my fertile years,” said Dryadson smiling. “Give it to the Halfling Marshal. Tell him that whatever becomes of our peoples, we will not forget the courage of his country. Tell him… that if we are victorious, lands will be his.”

“Forgive me your grace, but though I do not doubt their courage, they haven’t exactly provided us with an army worthy of such praise,” interrupted Count Ferawl.

Dyadson shot him an off-hand glance. “You was not there, at the Battle of Witch Green Pass, my Count. If you were, you would know that I am alive today because of their courage.”

Count Ferawl bowed his head for several seconds. “Forgive my ignorance, your grace.”

The oaken doors of the War Room suddenly burst open. The half dozen Elven Royal Guard stationed around the pillared room leapt into action. In a flash of ancient steel armour and ancestral blades they whirled towards the intruders. One was a man, clad in chain mail and a sword drawn in defence, and the other was too a man, but dressed in foul smelling rags caked in blood.

“State your business, human,” growled the foremost of the Royal Guard. “How did you get in here?”

“Get back, you fucking pointy eared bastard, this is the human heir of Belmorn you’re waving that curved chicken knife at,” roared the mailed man.

King Dryadson I looked hard at the ragged man, who had said nothing. The man returned the look, and smiled as if the two had a fond history.

“Lord Teor,” sneered Dryadson. “Come to piss on your father one last time, I trust?”

The Elf King’s words startled the council members, all of whom were finding it increasingly difficult not to point out his deteriorating demeanour.

Teor bowed his head. “Hail, King Marhon Dryadson I, Son of Meria of House Talia, Lord of Belmorn.”

“Answer the question, knave, or I’ll have you gutted. I have ill time for ill guests,” hissed the Elf King. He started marching over to the two humans; a hidden hand gripping his obsidian short sword beneath his fine silken robes.

“Forgive me your grace, but you lack the warmth of former days,” said Teor, still smiling despite his peril.

“You have a conscience of stone, to come back here. Do you have any idea what your leaving did to your father? What it has done to your peoples?” roared Dryadson, pulling his sword free. Anya started edging forwards, unsure of how to act. The rest of the council stood motionless.

Teor nodded. “Much has been put upon me, for my absence. It pains me, that even in the enlightened halls of the Elderborn, I find no respite.”

“I will kill you, Teor, I will kill you for everything you have done to my Kingdom. I taught you my wisdom, I taught you how to think, how to fight and how to kill. More importantly however, I taught you how to live your short mortal life for the better of the world. You repaid me by running off, leaving your poor sis-“ Dryadson paused, caught in sad memory. “Alistine was not ready for the throne. Such a delicate, sweet human, who could have achieved much in her time. She’s dead Teor, she died filling a position moulded for you.”

Teor’s smile vanished finally. “I understand your emotions, my King, but though you taught me much, you left me with more questions than answers. But I found them, all of the answers to the questions, and I return to you now with council an-“

Dryadson swung his sword for Teor’s neck. The monk of Tel’Gardas moved with unexpected speed however, and stepped back out of the blade’s reach. The Elf King stood stunned into inaction, unable to believe that a man had moved so fast. The Royal Guard moved in to subdue both the men.

“Stop,” thundered Dryadson’s unusually harsh voice. “You have been studying things best left unstudied, Teor.”

Teor’s smile returned. “That’s the very same advice you gave me when I first inquired, those years ago.”

“And with good reason. Nothing good will come from it. Leave now, and never return, and I will let you live,” commanded Dryadson. His right eye twitching, and his sword shaking erratically.

“Such anger, your grace?” asked Teor, looking genuinely worried. “I remember you once told me that rage was a wine best left unsavoured. I also remember Thendon, your son, taking to that lesson very keenly.”

King Dryadson swung his blade at Teor. This time the monk was unprepared for the stroke, and the metal caught him from shoulder to shoulder. He fell back, blood pouring down his already soiled clothes. Rob stepped over him, sword ready, and dared the Elf King to try and finish the job. The Royal Guard made to attack. An arrow glided through the air and knocked Rob square in the chest, but was broken by his mail. He stumbled backwards.

“Stop this madness!” Cried Anya, rushing forwards. Dryadson spun to face her.

“Be quiet, Countess.”

“Have you lost yourself, your grace? So much so that you murder our Kingdom’s only salvation on the very floor of your palace?” She said, holding a sword towards the Royal Guard, who stood confused and unsure of how to procede.

“Salvation?” asked Dryadson. “Human kind has been our downfall. Letting them settle here was to bring the-“

“Your grace!” Yelled Count Ferawl.

King Dryadson turned in time to see a shadow drop in front of him. It hissed like a snake of the far west, and lunged with a pointed spear. The Elf King’s reaction was slow – too slow to parry the strike, and the weapon’s head delved deep into his chest. He gasped, half in disbelief, half in pain, as his attacker released the spear and stood back.

“Sar’Nassa, the Emperor of the Blackfang Empire, sends his regards,” the figure hissed.

The Royal Guard, horrified, descended upon the assassin with rage, but he vanished as quickly as he appeared – as if into thin air. Anya rushed towards her King, and caught him before he hit the floor. His breath came in bloodied wheezes, and lines of red were soon flowing from his mouth.

“Fetch a physician,” she screamed. Count Ferawl answered the call and hurried from the War Room.

“What devilry was that?” said Rob, his face aghast.

“Shadow transcendence,” said Teor flatly. All heads in the room, save Dryadson’s, slowly turned to him. “An art long buried, but still practiced by very few left alive to remember.”
“This cannot be,” coughed Dryadson. “This evil was driven from the world thousands of years ago.”

“It has returned, your grace,” said Teor. He approached the dying King, and was not stopped from doing so. Kneeling down, he examined the spear as it stuck from the Elf’s chest. “Poison, your grace. There is not-“

“Quiet,” seethed Dryadson. His face was a picture of unbearable pain. “My last wish, my dying wish. I have no heirs, I have no on left to rule in my stead. My dying wish…”

“Be still your grace, help is coming,” whispered Anya soothingly, even as his blood pooled in her lap.

“… burn the Lizards. Kill them all. Save my people. There is no room left for Elven niceties. War is upon you all, and you will all die unless you grow strong and cruel…” with that the the Elf King went limp. Anya screamed, and buried her head into him.

Teor’s eyes were wide. He had not foreseen this; had never believed such things could happen. The scriptures were true. He turned and made for his exit, followed by a trembling Rob. The scores of Elven soldiers scouring the palace were indifferent to them, and before long, they were walking into the human refugee camp. War was coming, and it would be the last war to end all wars, if he did not prepare the world.

Vanguar

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Goi'Orka Rebels charge the Grimmhold Gate

Siege of Grimmhold
The iron helm of the Orc split in the wake of Stryke's two handed axe, his face twisted in pain before being covered in black blood. With a heavy kick to the rebel's chest, Stryke pulled his axe free from his skull and moved on to the next traitor. A squat, wide shouldered Orc charged with bared fangs.

"I'll eat your guts!" Screamed the cur as he came upon Stryke. The general side stepped the Orc and brought his axe around to the lament of a sickening crack of his enemy's spine. The limbs of the Orc twitched and convulsed as he fell to the blood soaked ground.

Taking a gulp of air into his lungs, Stryke's eyes scanned the battlefield. They found their mark. Coilla stood near thirty feet away, their hatchling tight upon her breast as she swung a claymore through the air. He attempted to close the distance between them and join his mate, but the chaos of battle had taken hold, and like an ocean, waves of bodies pushed the general away from where he willed. He soon lost sight of Coilla and found himself on a rock with fallen enemies strewn about his feet, his axe dripping in blood.

A young Orc of the Shale, judged to be about fifteen summers, rushed to Stryke's side, carrying the standard of the general. It was not his usual standard bearer. "Where is Brisbold?" Asked Stryke.

The lad shook his head. "Took a blade to his gullet."

"Your name?"

"Bane."

"Hold that banner high, Bane, prove yourself worthy to bear my standard!" Stryke barked. Bane obliged, holding the flag high in the air, the crimson desert sun peeking through dark clouds, pouring a red light down on the field, as if the world itself was bleeding. Stryke needed swords by his side to accomplish a charge through the wall of rebels that seperated him from where he judged his family to be. He let his voice ring loud and clear over the scream of the dying and the clash of iron. "To me brothers, to me. Bring your blades to my side!"

"To the General, to victory and fallen enemies!" Bane called at his side. Some fifty Orcs, a mix of Shale Ones and Crags gathered around Stryke. They were bloodied and sullen, their spirits sapped by the battle. The rebel assault upon the Grimmhold gate had come fiercely, but they held. Their only hope in repairing the gate was for this sally to succeed. He would drive these rebels back, find Coilla and make safe the gate, but he needed the wills of his Orcs strong.

Stryke spat on the ground, setting his eyes sternly upon them. "Hear me brothers! We fight not for the glory of my father, but for Vanguar! This rabble would have us divided, weak! Will the humans suffer a weakened Orc-Kind? Nay! They will set upon us in chains and slavery as they have in the past! They will seize us at our weakest. Hear my truth! We fight for a strong Vanguar, a united Orc-Kind. We fight for freedom from bounds and chains. Add your axes to mine, brothers. For freedom!"

The Orcs roared around him.

"For Freedom!"

"For Vanguar!"

"Death to the rebels!"

"Glory to Stryke!"

Stryke charged ahead, his troop tight on his heels. His axe split the air with a whoosh, tearing the arm of a rebel free from his torso. Another screamed as Stryke's claw ripped the cur's jaw from his face, ripping open his belly with his axe. The enemy gave way to his terrible charge. Those caught before him suffered grisly deaths and soon all the general saw were the backs of fleeing Orcs. The cry of a hatchling caught his attention. He made desperately for the source of the sound. His axe cleaving those that dared get in his way.

He brought the blade down heavily on one that tripped and fell before him, narrowly missing the blade. Stryke was about to bring the axe down again when the bloodlust abated just enough for him to identify the robes the Orc wore. They were grey and tattered, but he was indeed a Mouth, one of Calypso's order.

"Please stay your axe!" Cried the Orc.

Stryke sneered. "Who are you? What purpose you hold on this field?"

"I serve the High Chief, and bring his words from Amplesh."

Stryke lifted the Orc up, pushing past him. "Make for the Spire and do not delay!" The words of his father would have to wait until he found Coilla and his youngling.

A horn blew and the boots of the rebels set to flee. The battlefield grew sparse and before him stood Coilla, breathing heavily, their son at her breast. Stryke sighed in relief as he stood before her. She was drenched in blood, her long black hair soaked in the fluid, her eyes and tusks shining in contrast to the black plasma. Their hatchling cooed upon her chest, suckling the life's blood that dripped from the skin of his mother.

"Our son," smiled Coilla. "He handled his baptism well."

Stryke stretched out a claw, stroking the young one's head. "A fitting name day for him." Coilla nuzzled into Stryke's shoulder, raking her tusks along his neck. "His name shall be Shargam, as the standard bearer of Wold himself in the days of old."

"Shargam..." Coilla pondered. "It is a strong name. A good name."

Styke's arms wrapped around his family. Standing among the dead, soaked in blood, he felt they were invincible.

Horns of the rebel army blew in the deep of the Crag and the feeling vanished, replaced with vulnerability.

Joint-Kingdom of Belmorn


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The Last of the Great, Finally Laid to Rest

Hadelmere Square

The city square of Hadelmere was a beautiful place to behold. Giant marble slabs, crafted by ancient hands many thousands of years ago, lined the floor in criss-crossing patterns. Dozens of tall obsidian pillars lined the square, and between each one stood a structure of pure architectural beauty dedicated to one purpose or another.

At the northern end of the square, was the three tiered Hadelmere Palace. Its mighty spires of crimson rock twirled towards the blackening skies. The flags of Belmorn that so often fluttered proudly from its ramparts now hung glumly at half-mast. The Royal Guards, dedicated to its defence, knelt before the main gate in two perfectly spaced rows of twenty. Their decorated helms of burnished steel rested carefully under their shoulders, and they hung their heads low so that the starting wind tossed and turned their golden hair.

Carefully tended gardens broke up the monotony of marble slabs, roughly forming several rectangles that gradually grew smaller the closer they came to the city square’s centre. Through the middle of them, passed a roadway of obsidian blocks, that met with the palace’s gate and the square’s southern entrance. This road was often the scene of parades, and thousands of Elves would gather here to greet their victorious King, time and time again, since Belmorn’s founding those many, many years ago.

Today, thousands of Elves gathered at the edge of this road to accept the passing of their King.
The procession was a depressing sight. The Council of Nine, led by Anya Meadowsong, passed through the palace’s gate. Behind them were an honour guard of Glade Watchers; their bows unstrung, and their eyes gazing towards the setting sun. Their march thundered with each choreographed step. The King’s golden coffin, draped in the flags of his peoples, and a varying adornment of flower displays, came soon after.

As if on cue, the Elves, thousands of them, put their angelic voices together to sing a final farewell to their beloved king.

Marhorn! Marhorn!
Emperor’s Count, Belmorn’s King
The last of his line, the last of his name,
The Jourian beasts were his hideous bane,
Though he tended them with love,
Into his chest did a spear they shove,
No more of Talia’s sacred blood,
For it has drained into the mud,
Of this cursed world he fought to save,
Marhorn! Marhorn!


It was a bitterly short song, and lacking the expertise of the Elves’ greatest word smiths. Not many were in the mood for song writing, and even fewer were in the mood to sing with any real enthusiasm. To many this was a formality, and one that did not demand merriment as was usually expressed when celebrating the life of one so terribly lost.

Emperor Sar’Nassa had taken the Belmorn King, using black arts that even the Elves, ancient in their wisdom, did not understand. He had slaughtered him, as he stood in the safest place in all of Belmorn. He had mocked him. Though none present could verify that the mysterious assassin was indeed the Lizard whose name they cursed, it was definitely on his order that such a cowardly act was carried out.

Dryadson’s coffin was lowered into a hole. It had been specially prepared during the night, and it took several hundreds of Elves with levers and pulleys to hoist the large marble slabs out of the ground. They had then done what they could to craft the soil underfoot into a hospitable crypt. Dryadson had always requested he be interred in the city, so that he could watch over his peoples from whatever life waiting for him beyond the mortal world.

As the first of the slabs was lowered over the coffin, concealing it from view, both men and womenfolk broke down in uncontrollable sobbing. Each one of them owed that man a debt they would now never repay. He had saved them, when the Empire fractured, and the Lizards came baying for Elven blood. He had led the 7th Legion to war to defend Belmorn, and he had broken the Jourians there and then. After, he had disassembled his force and renounced his allegiance to the Empire, in order to safeguard his peoples. From then on he worked to bring peace to the region, and always he was thwarted. Now he had paid for his mercy, and for his weakness.

The Countess

Anya Meadowsong stood looking into the pane of polished iron. Her naked reflection looked back at her, eyes welling with tears. She saw her breasts jolting forcibly with each heavy beat of her heart, and her throat worked its way up and down as she fought against the sickening dread building up inside of her. She knew that now was not the time for emotions. War could ill afford a clouded mind, especially if one sought to achieve aims so grand.

Her jittering right hand snaked its way across the flat of her stomach, and trembling pale fingers traced the scar that lined it from north to south. She had supressed things for so long, as was the way of her kindred, but now with the death of her King, and a deadly adversary on the horizon, she let her mind wander.

She saw Thendel, with his youthful smile full of lusting want – a trait so seldom amongst a race of refrainers. He was a young princeling when she first met him properly, and though two centuries separated them, she allowed herself to bathe in the energy of his almost-human excitement at matters. He was charming, and warm, but more than that, he was full of a passion so lacking in other Elven men when it came to life’s finer things. He doted after her, though his father forbid it, and eventually one night after too much fruit wine, she gave him what he desired.

Her pregnancy was not an easy one. Being over two hundred and fifty years old at the time, she had left her fertility window long behind – or so she had thought. The Elves of Belmorn, though blessed with long life, were given a very limited time to populate. No one knew why exactly, as other Elven peoples seemed to be able to match the human rate of procreation and indeed surpass it. However, it had always been so for the Elves of Belmorn, for as long as any old historic scroll could remember.

To get with child beyond fifty years of age was a dangerous affair, and Anya was not spared. She became terribly ill into her fifth month, and unable to name the child’s father in fear of King Dryadson’s scorn, she was denied the compassion of her peers. Thinking her a whore, who had lost control of herself one stupid night, even her father thought ill of her. He expelled her from his estate, and sent her to live with the Sisterhood.

The Sisterhood was a place for all of Elfkind’s unwanted women. Though Thendel had tried to work the strings behind the scenes to secure her release, he was unsuccessful, and she became stuck there. Every day she toiled with needle and thread or with quill and paper for the benefit of others. It was not a happy life, but it had it was not without care. Into her seven month, Anya collapsed one night as she washed the clothes of her fellow ‘inmates’. Mother Tender Geliane found her, and promptly whisked her away to the resident physician.

To cut an awful and heart breaking story short, the child had to be ended before it came to full term. It had grown abnormally, and the physician had told Anya that the birthing process would take her life. She consented, if only so she could leave the Sisterhood, and be with her beloved Thendel.

It was many weeks before she could leave the delicate comfort of a bed, following the operation. The child had been dead the moment it was cut from her womb; a blessing she was glad to have received. Imagining herself cradling a badly deformed and dying infant in her bloodied arms was a picture she had trouble scrubbing from her mind.

Thendel had changed in the short period of her incarceration, however. Whether because Dryadson expected that Thendel was the son of Anya’s child, or perhaps because it was simply his time to up and take duties, the young Elven prince was no longer accessible to her. Whether he was in Erimir, Elslen, Jouria or Surgo, Thendel was always far beyond her reach. Even when she wrote him letters, and paying a heavy price for them to be delivered, she never received a reply.

It was some years until she finally realised that she and Thendel had been nothing. It was a fling, and nothing more – a foolish merging of flesh, to create an ill-fated abomination. She cursed herself a thousand times for her stupidity. Denied the love of a father who saw her as a whore, and the love of a mother who had died giving her life, the future Countess sought a future in the Glade Watchers. She would live on the fringes of her peoples.

The Glade Watchers were in many ways similar to the Sisterhood. They were all undesirables. Some were Elves with a strong adherence to violence, and could only sate their blood lust by serving with the world’s greatest forest fighters. Some were just simply unwanted, like Anya, and had joined as a way of stifling their grief.

From ambushing Jourian bandits to slaughtering Elslen slaving parties, Anya developed her skills in war and was found to be naturally adept to them. This allowed her to quickly climb the ranks of the Glade Watchers, and when the Empire crumbled, she cemented herself in the tomes of her peoples during the Battle of Meria’s Rest. King Dryadson I, seeming to forget Anya’s forbidden past love with his son, had named her the ninth Count of his new kingdom as a reward.

From her forest stronghold, buried deep in that ancient wood, she had served the Kingdom with tenacity. Her enemies, especially the Jourians, came to fear her brutality and they actively sent warbands and assassins to track her down. For that reason, she always wore a scarf to conceal her face on the battlefield, to prevent the enemy from diverting their entire attention against her and claiming a head as a trophy.

“Countess, it is time,” said Watcher Halan. He was cold and indifferent to her nudity.

Broken from her reverie, she nodded and held up her arms to be level with her shoulders. Four more Watchers descended upon her with leather and mail. They wrapped and fastened; tapped and pulled. Piece by piece, the armour of her father, dead since the early days of Belmorn’s independence, covered her. It was a beautiful blend of reddened leather, and burnished steel chains. The helmet crested into a hawk, and though it was heavy on her slender neck, she would wear it with pride and strength.

“I forgive you, father,” she sighed. “And you Thendel.”

She was to march at the head of the greatest Elven host Orysson had seen in over a century, and she would not be waiting for the morrow. They were to leave tonight, under the cover of the darkness and the rain. The Jourians, no doubt, had grown fat on their plunder and were busy biding their time. If the Elves force marched, they would clear half the distance by sunrise and any Jourian scouts would be hard pressed to report their findings in time for the Sorrowsong Host’s arrival.

Uaruneria



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Navy Cards

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Uncovering the West

With the return of the queen from Achnon, she busied herself with scrolls upon scrolls of reports. All of them detailing matters in the past that had taken place in her absence. However, only one particular event seem to be kept from being archived, the visit by the Dark Elves to be exact. The matriarch had to inform the queen within sealed doors, away from the ears and eyes of those who need not know. It was a sensitive matter, one which may very well decide the lifespan of the budding nation.

Not too long later, a message arrived in a form of a Bahaporean vessel detailing the nomination of Uaruneria to lead a coalition naval force to uncover the mysteries shrouded within the 'disappearance' of the dwarven kingdom of Echen. The matriarch voiced her opinion about the matter; "It is wiser to let the unknown to remain unknown, for every knowledge has a price."

However, the young queen with the spirit of a young adventurous soul longed for another voyage in the open seas, beyond the shelter of her homeland. It was inevitable for her to decide against her mother's advise, as desire to see more of the world was almost an inherent trait for all avian-folk. With the Baarin Band recently recalled from Bahapore, they were supplied and refitted once more to begin another voyage westward, towards the Echen Isles. This time however, with the queen overseeing the band.

A letter was written as response and kindly forwarded to the Bahaporean messenger with haste.

Joint-Kingdom of Belmorn


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The Breaking of the Joint-Monarchy

Fifteen thousand Elves. Five thousand armed with pikes, and clad in dull iron. Five thousand with longbow and quiver. Five thousand with sword and shield. It was a conventional Elven army, the first of Belmorn’s kind. Always had Dryadson, since the breaking of the Empire, relied upon guerilla warfare where his Glade Watchers would defeat numerically superior enemies from the shadows with their inhuman skill at arms. Running, firing and hiding; this was the way of the Belmornian Elves. No longer.

The Council of the Nine rode magnificent steeds at the heads of the marching columns. What remained of Hadelmere’s population, which was now mostly crippled Elves and children, threw flower petals and sung songs as the soldiers marched past. Humans too, miserable and beaten, left the safety of their sordid refugee camps to chant and cheer at the Sorrowsong Host.

Sorrowsong, a sad name for a sad army. Whenever a Mustering was enacted, in not just Belmorn but elsewhere, it was done so because the Elven population was on the verge of disaster. Therefore the resulting army was never a thing of glory, or of power, but of desperation. Elves loved nothing more than to live in peace, with their fine songs and finer foods. They frolicked, danced and slept; living for the moment, rather than an uncertain future. At least, that is how they used to live. In this war torn world, the way of the Elves was fast slipping into the sea.

As the mighty columns of the Sorrowsong Host left through the southern gate of Hadelmere’s tall walls of ivory rock, Lord Teor greeted the Council.

“Will your people help us?” asked Anya; her face obscured behind the unfeeling metal of her father’s eagle crested helm.

Lord Teor shook his head. “My people have bled enough for blades of grass and piles of rubble. I will lead all who that will follow, to the far south. Away from this bloodshed.”

“Coward, human,” sneered Count Ferawl. Unlike Anya, he was still dressed in his ceremonial robes of civil authority. He was a great statesman and administrator, but a poor soldier. “We go to die so that you all may live, and you abandon us?”

Teor’s face was pained. “I would beg that you come with me. There will be no victory for your kind, only death, it is written.”

“Written where?” hissed Countess Mayine. “In those decrepit scrolls of a dead religion?”

Teor nodded. “The world is changing. A great storm is coming. Force of Elven arms will be futile; the only victory to be had, is to flee to the south.”

“The Dark Elves of Arion are not as formidable as you may think, Human,” retorted Anya irritably. “My King fought long and hard to save you, your father and your peoples. Now he is dead, and you honour his memory like this?”

“You do not understand the true nature of things, Anya Meadowsong,” said Teor. His tone was unnervingly neutral, devoid of all emotion. The exchange between the human and the Elderborn stood in stark contrast to former times.

“Enough,” said Count Ferawl. The other Counts grunted in agreement. “Flee, run. Cower. You will never return, understand?”

“Very well,” said Teor sadly. “It is never too late to save your peoples. If you come to see reason, then journey south with what remains of your kin. Travel until you see the purple banner centred with an Eagle, then march hard west. You will find us, and your salvation.”

Marshal Tommen, mounted on his pony and accompanied by his chief advisors, galloped up alongside the confrontation. “What is happening?” He asked.

Anya looked long and hard at Teor, and then urged her horse past him. “The breaking of the Joint-Monarchy, the treachery of an entire people, and the return of an earlier era. Come, let us leave these humans to their antics. We will suffer none of it.”

March of the Sorrowsong Host

The march was long, and exhausting. Belmorn was a massive country; though sparsely populated. The great columns, thousands strong, marched along the narrow paved bridleway that connected the ancient city of Hadelmere to the former human stronghold of Fengarde. Glade Watchers, headed by Anya, had broken into small battle groups in order to scour the lands ahead, and the forests on the flanks to deter – and to warn of a Jourian ambush.

None came however, and as the moon ascended, and then descended, the Sorrowsong Host halted to rest. They had marched over two hundred miles in a day, made possible by their continual sprint. The Elves were a hardy peoples, strong from a life time of toils, and blessed with a stronger endurance than the weaker races such as humankind. However, even they had their limits, and now the Host was preparing to rest for a few hours. The Halflings, who had been piled onto Elven wagons for the journey, and towed by the best horses Belmorn’s stables could offer, were far from weary however.

Bards played their songs. Cooks laboured over fires, to produce fresh bread and seasoned meats. Morale was high, despite the circumstances, and before long the Elves were engaged in their much beloved revelry. The Glade Watchers, however, did not rest, and continued to scour the land for signs of a Jourian vanguard. It would be the end of Belmorn, if the Lizards were able to mount a surprise attack on the Host as it stopped to collect its breath. However, despite the best efforts of the Watchers, no tracks, traces or signs otherwise were found of the Lizards. It appeared that they had not ventured far from Fengarde.

Anya sat on a rock with the Halfling Marshal, sipping a century-old red wine. It was sweet to the taste, and reminded the Countess of better days when she enjoyed the hospitality of her father’s estate.

“Why have they not pressed the attack?” Asked Tommen uneasily.

“We heard reports,” replied Anya. “Reports that a Dwarf prince from the failed state of Surgo was on a diplomatic mission in Fengarde when the Yellowfangs attacked. He fled with the refugees, but then decided to keep the victorious Lizards at bay when the city fell. He dug a great trench across the bridleway, and fortified it with the bravest of the humans. Apparently, he holds it still.”

Tommen’s face twisted in disbelief. “How many men does this Dwarf have?”

“Last we heard, little under a thousand. Sar’Nassa has not made a serious attempt to remove him, however, and seems content to wait for our advance. He holds the wheat fields, and knows we face starvation if we do not march sooner or later. Still, this Dwarf, a General Maraver Stoneheart, has prevented Jourian raiding parties from penetrating further into our land. His bravery, and efforts to save lives, will be rewarded.”

“One Dwarf managed all that?” Tommen queried. He seemed unable to believe that the brutish and war mongering peoples of Surgo, the Dwarves, were so heroic and noble.

Anya smiled, her head swaying with the consumption of wine. “Yes, it seems so. An unsung hero of our chaos. It is often, when the Elves find themselves in their darkest hour, that heroes emerge from every crack and crevice,” she paused, and pointed at Tommen, “such as yourself, and your kin.”

“We are hardly heroes, my lady,” said Tommen, his face redding.

“Nonsense. My people forget, that is we who are fading into the shadow, and therefore we fail to pay due respect to the other races. Your presence on the field tomorrow will be vital,” she said smiling.

“How so, my lady?”

“The Lizrads have a score of catapults. Such weapons will devastate an amassed army, unless they are countered. You will come with me, and my Glade Watchers. This land is dotted with secret tunnel ways; some are ancient, and some are new. We will use the subterranean pass to come out on the flank of the Jourian army, and relieve them of their Stone Throwers.”

Tommen suddenly seemed to lose his courage. “What if the Jourians are waiting for us? What if their entire army rounds upon us?”

“Then I and my Watchers will die covering the retreat of your kinsmen. You have little to fear, Halfling, in that respect.”

***

The following night, the Sorrowsong Host reached the outskirts of Fengarde. They halted, as they looked upon a rising pillar of flame ascending from the bridleway a mile ahead. The fire had created a solid, impassable wall, and the smell of burning pitch clogged the nostrils of the Elven and Halfling army.

An advanced guard of Glade Watchers, covered by a regiment-strength archery levy formation, inspected the scene. There was little doubt that they looked upon the briefly fabled Maraver’s trench. Bodies of lizards had been piled high in the flames, and even now, the Elves could make out the twisted and scorched bones of their enemies. Dozens of headstones sat at the trench’s flank, marked with human names.

“We have found no sign of the Dwarf, or the rest of his men – lest they were taken captive,” said Anya to Count Ferawl. “Perhaps they have fled?”

“It matters little,” replied Count Ferawl. “They have done us a great service. Dead or alive, they will be honoured.”

“Agreed,” said Countess Mayine.
“The fires will burn until sunrise, for now we are obscured by the foul smoke screen,” said Anya.

“Good. I wonder If that is why the trench burns, perhaps Maraver knew of our coming?” asked Count Ferawl.

“Maybe,” replied Anya, unsure. “Regardless. I will lead the Watchers and the Halflings into the tunnels. We will keep an eye from unseen places, and allow you to draw out the Stone Throwers.”

Count Ferawl nodded, but did not smile. Instead he stood from his chair, and planted his sword into the earth. “Let us not forget ourselves. We are a pained peoples, yes, but we must not give into an emotion that may destroy us. We must fight, on the morrow, with our customary level-headedness and with one aim in mind: victory.”

The rest of the Council nodded their heads and gave approving grunts.

The Battle of Belmorn

As the sun rose to its highest point in the sky, the two largest armies in the south of North Orysson had assembled to face each other. From the decrepit bowels of a ruined Fengarde, Emperor Sar’Nassa’s lizard hordes had poured forth to form three massed lines of archers, Sword Dancers and Grim Guard. Facing them, in likewise fashion, where the neatly squared ranks of Hadelmere’s army.

Count Ferawl, who has assumed authority over the battle with the Council’s consent, ordered the archers forwards. They did as hey bayed them, and broke apart into loose skirmishing formations. The Yellowfangs, with their poisoned arrows and hissing tongues moved forwards to meet them. Behind the army, at the outskirts of Fengarde, the twenty feared Stone Throwers were being hauled into position.

For the next hour, Elven arrow met Lizard flesh, as Belmorn’s superior archers rained death upon their enemy. However, broken up as they were to negate the incoming Stone Thrower projectiles, their volleys were neither amassed nor coordinated. As a result, the death toll exceded only half of what it would have done otherwise.

The Stone Throwers, now staked into the ground, began lobbing flaming rocks towards the Elves – but not at their archers. The grim volley went over the heads of the Elven archers, and crashed down into the tightly packed ranks of Elven pikemen. Count Ferawl cursed, and ordered them to move backwards – the Council of the Nine had grossly underestimated the catapults’ ranges. Despite being mauled to death by falling rocks, the Elven pikemen retreated in orderly fashion, until they were well beyond the range of the weapons.

Sar’Nassa, visible from the Elven line by his elaborate throne, carried no less by enslaved humans, then ordered his Yellowfang Sword Dancers to press the attack against the Elven archers, who were now well beyond the immediate assistance of the pike men. Seeing this move coming, Count Ferawl dismounted his horse, and joined with the Elven Sword Levy – despite protests from the other council members. He ordered his swordsmen forwards, and left further orders for the Council to rearrange the pike men on the flanks of his advance; this they did, flawlessly.

The Elven archers, loosing volleys even as they retreated under a barrage of rocks and arrows, were un-phased by their peril as the Sword Dancers stampeded across the grassy plain. As the they started to split and meld into the fast approaching Sword Levy formations, the Sword Dancers yelled their war cry, and the two forces crashed with a gut grinding thunder.

***

With battle fully joined, and Sar’Nassa’s Grim Guard advancing to reinforce the Sword Dancers, Countess Anya Meadowsong made her move. Exiting from a series of strategically placed hollow rocks – each denoting an exit or entrance of the hidden tunnels – her Glade Watchers emerged within a hundred yards of the grotesque contraptions. She watched them angrily as their great arms were pulled back by dozens of Lizards, before being loaded up with blocks of Fengarde’s masonry. She waited for them to fire, and they did so with a heart churning screech, and she watched as their projectiles crashed indiscriminately into the furious melee taking place between the Sword Dancers and Sword Levy.

“For Marhorn, our King, and all we hold dear!” She screamed, before nocking an arrow and leasing it high into the sky. It flew with legendary grace, and landed into the serpent skull of a lizard.

The Glade Watchers charged, stopping only to fire their arrows, and quickly closed with the clustered catapults. Behind them, Marshal Tommen led his force of halfings, and together the two allied hosts thundered into the unsuspecting Lizard flank.

Reaching the first Stone Thrower, Count Anya dropped her bow and sliced the stomach of a Lizard warrior with the lightning whirl of her sword. Seeing the peril of their catapults, Sar’Nassa became enraged, and ordered the Grim Guard to turn and descend upon the flankers. The Glade Watchers paid no heed to their doom however, and quickly darted from one contraption to the next, first driving off its crew, and then setting them on fire. Marshal Tommen held his musketmen in a thin skirmishing line, and ordered rotating volleys against the advancing Grim Guard. Scores fell with each depressing of the triggers, but it was not enough to stall them.
Anya, slick with the blood of her enemies, ran over to the Halflings. “Flee!” She screamed, shoving the Marshal aggressively. “We’ve done what we can, now flee!”

The Grim Guard broke upon the Halfling gunners, but were driven back by a last-minute charge by the Halfling infantry. The Glade Watchers fired arrows into their flanks, and eventually the best of Sar’Nassa’s army withdrew, if only briefly, to build up for their next attack. Not wasting the respite, the Elves and Halflings evaporated into the dozen rocks from which they had appeared, leaving destruction in their wake.

As they sprinted across the tunnels, turning only to set traps against their pursuers, the Countess fell to the ground. Two Glade Watchers immediately picked her up, and dragged her to safety at the head of the retreat.

“Countess?” asked a concerned and breathless Tommen; a bloodied line ran down one side of his face.

She did not reply however, and her skin had become a deathly pale. One of the Watchers carrying her paused, and felt around her for a wound. Alas he found one – a large hole in her side, from a Grim Guard spear.

The tunnels trembled as one trap after another was set off by the Grim Guard, whom had discovered the subterranean pass. Rock falls and hidden archers would do little to stall them however. Waking briefly, as if from a deep sleep, the Countess shrugged off those who held her up.

“Leave me. I have strength enough left to hold these beasts at bay; make good the gains,” she ordered, coughing blood into her forearm.

“I…” said one of the Glade Watchers.

“Now, leave, or you will all die,” she barked, drawing her sword. “I am carrion. I will not die in the warmth of an Elven death bed, helpless as I slowly succumb to my wound.” She looked at the wide eyed Halfling Marshal. “Take this,” she said, reaching into her armour and retrieving an obsidian amulet. “My King, before his death, wanted you to have this, as a token of his appreciation. I was sceptical, and withheld it. You have proved yourself worthy, and now I know that Dryadson was not lost in lunacy, but rather, admiration.”

Before the Halfling could reply, Anya darted back down the tunnel way. The Glade Watchers bent their heads as she passed them by. They struggled with the sight of seeing her much beloved leader going to her death alone, but they were not about to make her sacrifice in vain.

“Let’s go,” said one of the Glade Watchers, bitterly.

Count Anya met the advance party of Grim Guard in a narrow pass. They charged, and she responded. Her sword struck with lightning grace, slaughtering effortlessly one Lizard after another. One of the Grim Guard, large as he was, hissed and pounced at her; even as she withdrew a blade from the neck of his brothers. With his weight, he knocked her to the ground.

Refusing to die, the Countess spat blood into his eyes, and retrieving a hidden dagger, shoved it into his neck. Heaving him off her, she struggled to her feet and continued to beat back the advances of a dozen warriors. After slaying all of them, and the tunnel growing silent, she fell to her knees and slumped forwards… never to rise again.

***

The Elves, ducked, lunged and parried against the fearsome Yellowfang sword dancers. It had been a brutal melee, and both sides had suffered terrible casualties. Count Ferawl had been struck in the face by a poisoned arrow an hour previous, not long after the battle was joined, but he had been transported safely to the Elven rear.

The remaining Counts and Countesses knew little could be done for him. He was a fool to have entered the battle at the forefront of his men, but it was a courageous and honourable act, worthy of song. Saddened by his loss, but noting that the Lizards were far from breaking, Countess Mayine ordered for the Sword Levy to retreat under the cover of the archers. The Lizards attempted to pursue them, but with their Stone Throwers under attack, the Elven archers had formed ranks and their coordinated volleys blotted out the sun. Several of the serpents, ill armed against ranged attacks, were stuck like pigs and eventually the Blackfang Emperor, irritated by the Elves’ last minute orderly withdrawal, ordered for his force to return to Fengarde.

Many had died, but no winner had yet been determined.

Battle Outcome: Draw

Losses: 6150 Elves, 190 Halflings, 9150 Jourians.

Kingdom of Torfas


Army Status Cards:



Navy Status Cards:

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A Dying Message, From A Dying King of A Dying Land

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Weeks has passed after the messenger departure to Helor with news of good fortune for both kingdom, when the messenger return he's not alone, a big humanoid elephant, known as Ganesha is accompanied by the messenger to the throne room in Maradur Fortress.

"My King, the ambassador of Helor." As the messenger said while kneeling, after he and the ambassador enter the throne room.

"State your business, is your King, Saint-King Bharat has accepted my trade terms?" he ask to the ambassador.

"Our King is pleased to hear your message, but at the same time a great misfortune also befell us, our allies, Lord Commander Cyril Gatecross lost the battle and his empire fell into the hands of the lizard of Hlondeth, and if they come after us, we must be ready. Related to that, unfortunately we can't supply you with our rice, but in return, we will double the amount of the stone that we will give in return of your iron and bronze as we really need it to make our own weapon due to possible incoming invasion." the ambassador answered.

"Then so be it, i accept what your king can offer me, and tell your King, He is invited to the Grand Alliance, and if the Hlondeth lizard is invading Helor, just send me a messenger, my forces is ready to help" "young messenger tell the economic council to prepare the trading ship,"

"Yes, my King."

"Many thanks High King Cryoss Soulfell, our people will never forget your help."

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The Grand Fleet Part. 2

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Cryoss, riding in a horseback, come to visit Gromodor port to see the ship building progress, it has progressed much from the first he ordered to build the fleet but, at this rate, the fleet will be finished at the end of autumn, the king is a little bit uneasy with this, "this will not make it right in time." he said as he ride back to Maradur.

As soon as he arrived in Maradur, he hurried to write a message to Bahapore,



"Gruul, give this message to one of our messenger, and tell him to deliver this letter to Lord Geward."

Without word, Gruul hurried himself to find the messenger and give him the message.

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Elthana Report

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"My King, Report From Elthana Councils" said Gruul, after he enter the throne.



"And this is the package that come with the letter"

"Open that for me, i need to write a further order for this"

As he begin to write the letter, Gruul open the chest and surprised for what he found.

"My king, you should take a look at this" as he lift a large but slim twin curved warglaive, "I found this and some old parchment"

"Intresting..."

The warglaive, is bladed in both side, while the grip is in the middle of the glaives, the blade is somewhat strong, but light weight. the steel is still shining despite of created long time ago.

"Send this package to the Anvil, let them deal with this things"

"Yes, my King, i'll deliver this to the Anvil myself."

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Orcish Archer Division

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Weeks has passed, the archery training of the High Orc is done well, while trained by the Elthana Elite archers, and adapting from the Elthanian art Archery, the Torfas Kingdom now has it own Archers, while able to shoot farther than the regular elves, the archers is also able to clash in a melee combat due to their axe playing skill.

As the storm grows near, this will give Torfas and the Grand Alliance a great advancement.

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The Traveler Journal Part. 2

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WIP