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Hidden 6 days ago 6 days ago Post by Dyelli Beybi
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Dyelli Beybi A prince among men

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Smoke and Steel
Act One: Allies and Rivals


The Palace at Alveby: Orrian Corfina and Arel Elmys


The massive vaulted windows of the palace were an impressive sight, if one that symbolised all that was wrong with the current Empire to Arel, as did the obscenely large hall with tapestry hung walls, carved columns and frescoes on the ceiling. All commemorating the glories of the deceased Emperor.

Orrian was leaning on the railings of the balcony at the far end of the hall, wearing a simple but valuable blue tunic. He turned as Arel approached, though didn't move from his spot, motioning for Arel to join him. Outside smoke still rose from parts of the city that had been set afire when the army arrived. They had not been gentle on the inhabitants of the decadent city, "Sir Arel!" Orrian greeted him cheerfully, "Come to admire the view?"

"No Sire, I've come with an question," Arel replied, leaning on the railing next to his leige. Below them, in the courtyard, the guard were changing.

"Well," Orrian raised an eyebrow, "What is it? Out with it man!"

"What now?" Arel asked, continuing before the question had a chance to elicit a confused response from his liege, "We've taken Alveby and driven your brother back, but do we really want to conquer the East? There is an obvious need to bring your brother to justice, but I fear we'll whittle away our forces and find few people willing to fight with us the further East we go."

Orrian nodded. A short, decisive nod, "Same thing crossed my mind, but what option do we have? We can't let him rebuild in peace."

"My advice, Sire?" Arel offered.

Orrian nodded again.

"Ally with the Hasikos girl in Trefgodwig. She's not interested in the West - let her have the East. She has the Dawnbringer with her, it will strengthen both our causes. We bring out combined forces to drive your brother out of Mitteland, back to Inbur, then let her siege down the Mitteland cities," he proposed, "We offer her our support, militarily and financially. In return she agrees to pay a yearly tribute of thanks to you, the Emperor of Haltia."

Orrian paused, then let out a guffaw of laughter, "I hear she's got the temperament of a lioness - quite unlike the mewling coward you expect from a human leader... though this decision is one I'd rather take advice on from all of our Chieftains and other leaders - no offense to you of course, Sir Arel."

"None taken my liege," Arel replied smoothly, "Shall I gather them in the hall?" a nod from Orrian, "Call it an hour?" another nod.




The City of Inbur: Oskar and Eleuia Krawiec


"Darling," Eleuia rose as Oskar entered the drawing room, exchanging a quick kiss before he slumped down in one of the two plush armchairs.

Eleuia took a moment to pour him a glass of wine, which he accepted with a grateful smile, before taking a seat in the chair next to him. Iskar reached across with his free hand and Eleuia reached back, their fingers intertwining in the space between their chairs, "Long day?" she asked him.

"Long day," he replied with a sigh, "Rebels everywhere. They don't dare come too close to Inbur. Yet."

She smiled, "Well the good news is, that I've caught wind of no murmurings of revolt in the city itself. So you can rest easy on that front. Most of the people here are worried by what that Ariana girl might do if she gets across the walls."

Oskar chuckled, "Well the Emperor is camping out in Mitteland. Dardithas is camping out in the Grendell, though I suppose I can't really blame him. The Armies in the South and in disarray. And we are here. Holding the richest city in the circle sea. We need soldiers, but we," he took a sip of wine before motioning with the cup to indicate the two of them, "Don't have the money to buy any more. We have the host and the garrison and that is about that."

Eleuia gave a short squeeze his hand, a gesture Oskar knew meant she had thought of a solution to his problem already. He smiled, raising an eyebrow, "The people who are scared of the Hasikos girl," Eleuia said, "Some of them are from major trading companies with a lot of money. I think it is worth inviting them over for dinner."

"To ask them for cash?" Oskar asked incredulously.

"To ask them to invest in soldiers to defend their assetts," Eleuia rephrased with a slight smirk, "I'd say we start with the Elnorin-Liawraek Group and the Duke of Planina."

Oskar raised his eyebrow again, "All Elgafolk. They'll think they've been invited to a supper for worms."

"Perhaps," Eleuia shrugged, "But the Hasikos girl apparently enjoys impaling elgafolk. I think they might want to talk to a Hettman on this occasion.

Oskar held her gaze for a long moment then gave a chuckle, "Alright, send the invites out for tomorrow. For the rest of the evening shall we pretend we aren't in the middle of a civil war?"

Eleuia gave a coy smirk, "As you wish."




Trefgodwig: Andronika Hasikos, Vassos Costaou and Vestele Loralen


Vassos was sitting by the window, enjoying his pipe, looking out across the garden when there was a sudden, and quite inappropriate whoop of delight from Andronika. He sighed inwardly, turning to see what she was up to.

She was sitting behind her desk with Vestele, pouring over a letter, hurried whispers passed between the pair, followed by a snigged from Andronika. Vassos rose, taking his pipe out of his mouth, "What's got you so excited?" he asked, informally since it was only the three of them.

Andronika turned the letter around, triumphantly holding it up for Vassos to read, though it was far too far away for him to make out what it said. Thankfully she summarised it as he approached, "A certain General Maza in Ebengrenzstadt has announced he is opening the city to us. We've got an Imperial city without needing another battle or a seige."

"And we don't have an army," Vassos pointed out.

"The Carnelfennians have an army," Andronika replied airily, "And we'll have more troops when we meet Maza. I think we have ample for now."

"The King of Carnelfenney wants you to marry his brother before he gives you his troops," Vassos pointed out.

Andronika gave a smirk, cocking her head to one side, "But would he really want his brother's potential-bride-to-be getting herself hung-drawn and quartered because he didn't help her when she was honour bound to support her subject in his hour of need?"

Vassos groaned inwardly, "There are two Imperial armies in the vicinity."

"I'm hoping that Orrian might be receptive to a Treaty of one form or another," Vestele chipped in, "I come from the West. A lot of the nobles there think that Mitteland and Inbur are more trouble than they are worth."

Vassos wasn't overly keen on the elgakvinne. Andronika had adopted her, he suspected, more out of pragmatism than genuine affection... but that affection seemed to have grown up rather rapidly. Andronika had a tendency to trust the wrong people and Vassos was far from convinced she was a genuine ally. They barely knew her.

"Call everyone together!" Andronika declared before Vassos had a chance to vocalise any further concerns, "It is time to make plans to march North."




Rodelkog: Konrad Louffen and Marius Panayi


There were still far too many crows over Rodelkog for Konrad's liking. It meant there were bodies, somewhere out there in the woods, that nobody had found and buried. Still he couldn't detect the sickly scent of decaying corpses nearby and as the walked along the dry stone wall, a skylark singing somewhere overhead, it was hard to imagine this had been the sight of a battle just over a week ago... if it wasn't for the signs of thousands of boots churning up the freshly ploughed earth.

"We need to press onto Inbur," Payani repeated, "We can't rest on our laurels. Blast a breach with the cannons and storm the city."

"We're not strong enough and the troops need rest," Louffen repeated, "If we left now we'd be marching with what... 13,000 soldiers? The Imperial garrison and other armies in the vicinity can pull together double that number and many of our troops are untrained. We'd be massacred. What we need to do is build up our forces here and start looking at potential avenues of retreat if the Emperor enlists another Host or comes East himself."

Payani grunted, not seeming convinced, "We also need to decide on a plan for what to do if Andronika sends an envoy here."

Louffen raised an eyebrow as they reached the corner of the field, heading back towards the village.

"Oh don't be like that," Payani grunted, "Andronika courts elga favour. I for one do not like it."

Louffen didn't that much either, but it bothered him less than Payani, "We'll discuss it more over breakfast when we are back at the manor," they had occupied a small but modest manor outside of town, which was currently acting as their headquarters. "With the others," he added.




Rodelkog: Coralie D'Ambois, Alberic Thorel and Momin Assinger

(Cowritten with @InfamousGuy101)

The camp was a large, sprawling affair on the edge of the village, though after being held on the outskirts of the camp for a while, Alberic was ushered through it, through the mud between the tents, to a large manor house on the edge of the town where he was wordlessly shoved into hall with a cheerful blazing fire in the hearth, and, wearing a black satin court dress, stood Coralie D'Ambois, hands planted firmly on her hips flanked by a pair of Iktani with black-feathered morions and halberds who had presumably been members of her crew.

She was a pretty woman in her mid twenties with dark brown hair, a fair complexion and striking blue eyes. Pretty enough to be remembered. The dress was a rich cut, with gold embroidery around the square neckline and fashionable lace trim. She wore a gold necklace with a particularly large diamond pendant that must have cost a fortune. She looked every bit the noble apart from the pistol in her right hand, "Ah Captain... I think I remember you," she said conversationally as she cocked the pistol, aiming it experimentally at Alberic's chest, before lowering it again, "Which is why I said I'd have a chat with you rather than approving your hanging as a spy. So, what are you doing here?"

Alberic barely flinched as the pistol was leveled at his chest, his expression remaining calm and unbothered. Instead, he took a step forward, his boots scraping softly against the wooden floor, his eyes meeting Coralie’s with the faintest hint of a smirk, “When I first heard tales of a Corsair noblewoman taking hold of an entire fleet and wreaking havoc on the coast, I thought it was just the usual tavern hearsay,” he began, his tone conversational, almost amused. “Stories like that have a way of growing legs after a few cups of ale.” He gestured faintly toward her, taking in her opulent appearance. “Little did I think it’d be the same girl who was, what, a mate-in-line a few years back?”

"I was never a mate... got the Vengeance by arguing I was Anquetil's common law wife when he died," Coralie corrected, her expression turning sombre for a moment, "But I let his, and now my, First Mate, Mister Assinger do most of the running of the ship until I learned the ropes... so to speak. He's an experienced and competent sailor."

“And yet, here you are. An entire fleet under your command, raiding the Haltian coast and styling yourself Empress.” Alberic's smirk deepened. “Unbelievable, isn’t it? Then again, I imagine you’ve heard similar unbelievable tales yourself. Stories of the return of the Hasikos Dynasty. Of the Dawnbringer. Legends don’t seem quite so far-fetched anymore, do they?”

Coralie gave a vague shrug, "Dawnbringers are a great way to excite the peasants when the Empire is on its knees and the Hasikos family never went away... haven't you heard, youre talking to one?" she declared, before adding, "On my mother's side."

Alberic’s smirk widened at Coralie’s words, his arms folding across his chest, “So a Hasikos by blood, then?” he mused, his voice laced with amusement. “Well, I suppose the name doesn’t carry much weight among our lot. Corsairs don’t bend the knee to mainland lines after all. But perhaps…” His eyes gleamed with a sharper edge. “Perhaps the fact that one of them, alongside the Dawnbringer, managed to beat back an entire Haltian army might make you reconsider.” He let the words hang in the air for a moment, pacing a few steps closer to the fire as if lost in thought. “That battle at Trefgodwig.

Happened before the Empire truly began to crack. It wasn’t just a victory, it was a rout. And maybe, just maybe, that rout was what sent the first real tremor through the Haltian Empire. Shook them so hard it started the infighting we’re seeing now. Or at the very least… ignited it. I was there,” he said simply. “I saw it with my own eyes. The Dawnbringer isn’t just some rallying cry for rabble. She’s something more. She can rally them.” He gestured broadly toward the direction of the camp outside, the Corsairs scattered across the shore, “Men and women like us. She can turn bickering factions into something stronger...”

Alberic took another step closer, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial tone, “Imagine it, Coralie. Our warring cities—Vich, Emmidly—no longer at each other’s throats. Instead, united. A single fleet. A massive fleet. One that could bring the Empire to its knees while it’s already staggering. And here’s the thing…” His voice sharpened, “It starts here. With your fleet. With you, ‘Empress’ D’Ambois. This is the moment,” he said finally, “The question is... will you seize it?”

"Oh I'm sorry, when you said one of them beat back an Imperial army, I thought you were talking about me," Coralie smirked, toying with her pistol, "We won quite the victory. Shot their cavalry to ribbons when they tried to outflank us through the marshes.

"And you know, now I think if it," she tapped the pistol against her cheek thoughtfully, "I think I'm doing a rather good job of inspiring the men all on my own. You have some prophecy and a girl with glowing swords - yes I'm heard of your lady. I, on the other hand, took a Calarian treasure ship. A real, genuine galleon... I managed to fool into leaving port witout its convoy. And I outfoxed the Imperial Army they sent to get me. So let me cut to the chase. What are you proposing? And what's in it for me?"

Alberic chuckled, nodding faintly in acknowledgment of her words, “It’s no small feat to take a Calarian treasure ship, let alone outfox an Imperial Army. I’ll give you credit, Coralie—what you’ve built here, what you’ve accomplished, it’s impressive. More than impressive, really. But let me ask you this: What’s next? You’ve carved out your own piece of the pie, sure, and it’s a fine one. But it’s still just a piece. What if it could be more? The truth is, the Dawnbringer and Lady Andronika? They’ve got the men. They’ve even got firepower. But they don’t have the sea. They don’t have ships. Not like you do. You’ve got the one thing they’re missing to truly tip the scales in this fight.

“What’s in it for you? Your own domain, once the fires die down. A fleet and a cause that would let you rule something far greater than a few scattered ports. Imagine it—your name known not just among Corsairs, but across every realm that fears the Empire. And when this is all over, you’ll have the power to claim whatever you want.”

"What I want is a nice manor outside of Vich, though I suppose I could be tempted by an upgrade," Coralie smirked, seating herself in a chair near the fire and motioning for Alberic to take the one opposite her, "You see the problem is, I have men and firepower. Quite aside from the crews we brought onshore, I have local peasants flooding in. We have two batteries of falconets and captured 32 Imperial sakers in the recent engagement," she declared, "Whereas your ladies are still taking tea with the King of Carnelfenney. You know, for all your nice words, I think they need my ships to get into Old Inbur because they don't fancy trying to march around the Morktree. Which makes this seem like a pretty one sided proposition given I could be wearing the crown by the time they even get here.

"But, Im a nice person and I'm not going to turn down the chance of gaining more soldiers and ordinance. So this is my message for your ladies: I will send you back on a ship and you can tell your them that I pledge to send however many ships they need to transport their forces here, to supplement my own. They wilm will pledge their allegiance to me, but I will name your young Andronika as my heir apparent. If she is helpful I might even agree to her as a 'Co-Empress' or some such nonsense. To be negotiated in person, at a future date... but for now I'm not pledging myself to her. From where I'm sitting she needs me a lot more than I need her."

Alberic eased into the chair opposite Coralie, leaning back as the firelight flickered across his face. Finally, Alberic leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees, his tone measured yet carrying a hint of admiration. “Now I see how you’ve come as far as you have, Coralie,” he said with a faint smirk. “You’ve got the sharp instincts of a Corsair and the steel to back them up. I respect that, and I think most would.” He paused, letting the compliment sink in before continuing.

“That said,” he added, his voice sharpening, “if you truly could take Inbur on your own, you’d already be sitting on its throne, wouldn’t you? Let’s not pretend the Empire’s just going to roll over because they’re in the middle of a civil war. A divided Empire is still dangerous, and their armies, even fractured, could bleed you dry before you ever set foot in the capital.”

He shifted his weight, folding his arms, “I’ll take your offer back to them. I’ll even tell them you’re open to negotiating this ‘Co-Empress’ arrangement. But make no mistake, Coralie—this isn’t about anyone swearing total allegiance to anyone else. This is an alliance, pure and simple. One forged out of necessity, where the terms of succession can be decided later, in a more peaceable context as I'm sure you'd prefer. Right now, there’s a bigger enemy at hand. And I think you, better than most, understand that it’s the united front that wins wars, not fractured claims.”

"I disagree," Coralie shook her head, "An Alliance of equals isn't possible when we're both claiming to be the one in charge. It would just be a matter of time before that leads to a violent disagreement that would lead to me regretting my decision. There is only one Captain on a ship. And since I have the ships... Andronika can accept being my heir or stay in Carnelfenney."

Alberic studied Coralie carefully, his expression tightening just slightly. He leaned forward in his chair, “With all due respect, Coralie, putting terms like that on Andronika—demanding she become subservient to you—isn’t strength. It’s fragility,” he said, “You’re right that there can only be one captain on a ship, but this isn’t just about your fleet anymore. This is about uniting forces to take on something far larger than either of you can handle alone. And putting her in a corner with demands like this only risks losing everything she brings to the table.” He gestured broadly, his voice more deliberate, “Andronika doesn’t come empty-handed. She’s raised her own regiments, has her own artillery, and the Dawnbringer has rallied thousands of troops and allies for her. The fact she has the King of Carnelfenney listening to her is not a small bargaining chip, that the firepower and legitimacy that tips the balance. If you’re asking her to kneel instead of stand beside you, you risk alienating all of that. And I don’t think I need to tell you what happens to a fleet—no matter how strong—when it’s standing alone against an Empire that’s still very dangerous.”

Alberic’s tone softened slightly, though his words remained clear and pragmatic. “You need what Andronika and the Dawnbringer bring to the table. And they need your fleet, your experience, and your cunning. That’s the deal I can take back to them: cooperation, not submission. Because if you demand too much now, you risk losing it all.”

Coralie leaned back in her chair, giving a small laugh, "I'm asking her to be my heir, that's not the same as bending the knee. Its accepting I'm in charge for now and she will be later. The other possibility would be to form an agreement to divide the Empire... because currently we're both claiming all of it. War between us would be inevitable."

Alberic nodded thoughtfully, “The latter agreement, dividing the empire that is... is one I think Andronika would find far more appealing. It avoids putting either of you in a subordinate position and prevents a war between allies before the real fight is done. It’s not ideal, but it's practical, and practicality wins wars.” He straightened, “I’ll relay it to her. If she’s wise—and I know she is—she’ll recognize that cooperation, even with compromises, is better than turning allies into rivals.”

Coralie waved a hand airily, "I'll send someone to negotiate on my behalf, but you have the start of something... perhaps."




After Alberic was gone, another man entered the room, he was a tall, muscular figure in a fashionable slashed doublet. He had a dark complexion, and a jet black beard and mop of unruly hair, "Momin," Coralie greeted as he moved to join her by the fire, "You hear all of that?"

"Enough," he confirmed, "You're not seriously entertaining that popinjay's ideas are you?"

Coralie gave a derisive snort, "Oh Lord no! I'd rather not invite a viper in to bed with me. If his girls can agree on me being in charge, I'll welcome them here. If not, they can stay in Carnelfenney for all I care. We'll see if Stefano wants to go to have a talk with them. I feel like this is his sort of job. For now though we have a bigger fish to land! Imperials to the North of us, Calarians to the East. We need to decide on a course of action."

"Shall I call the Captains together?" Momin suggested.

"Thank you," Coralie nodded, "We'll meet in here."
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Hidden 4 days ago 11 hrs ago Post by Tesserach
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Tesserach

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Red Dawn

Location: Somewhere in Rural Iburia North/East of the Morktree /
Everywhere in Inburia North/East of the Morktree







Somewhere in Rural Inburia East of the Morktree - Everywhere in Rural Inburia East of the Morktree

Folmon Eilthana was awakened by the barking of his dog. After pulling his pillow over his head it became clear the animal was having another fit, barking at the squirrels no doubt. Rubbing his stinging eyes he tossed his sheets aside and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. It was then he heard the sound of what sounded like footsteps creaking against the boards of the veranda just beyond his window.

"Who's goes there?" Folmon called into the darkness, moving to the window to try and see who was visiting at this hour.

He was greeted by a voice, like thunder from just beyond the window. "Eet is death!"

"Uh..." Folmon's heart nearly stopped as the window exploded, several flashes and the sound of gunfire shattered glass and splintered wood from the far wall of his bedchamber. He threw himself to the floor, his ears ringing as figures pressed through the windows and curtains beyond. Outside he could hear pounding at the front door of people trying to break down the door.

Scrambling across the floor he went to bedside table where his pistols were stored. Cursing, he realized both unloaded, and Folmon rolled under his bed. Outside, the bandits had cleared away the glass, reloaded their weapons and were scrambling inside.

"Fucking got him!" One exclaimed as they entered. Three men entered the room one after another as he heard the front doorframe splinter and give way, men spilling in out there too. Beyond the house he could hear the yelling and screaming of killing and dying. Shots rang out. Once inside the house, he heard the smashing doors and other sounds he could hardly identify.

Folmon realized then and there he was going to die. With his useless pistols, all he could do was lie still, waiting to be discovered and killed. Every moment that passed reenforced the certainty that these human bandits were of no mind to take prisoners or hostages. He could hear the brigands outside killing his friends and family, one after another. It reminded him of a pack of wolves when they made a kill - a growing cacophony of barking and howling that rose towards a fevered pitch as the deed was finished and only petered off as they set to eating.

Or in this case looting.

For what seemed like an hour he lay there. Realizing as the figures passed through his room and moved on to looting the rest of the house that, in the darkness, they assumed they'd shot him dead. Still, as the sounds of the rampage beyond began to settle, he could still hear figures moving outside. The yipping and hollering rising up once again as someone attempted, what he'd been contemplating - to make a break for it - and they descended upon the unhappy person.

It was then that a figure entered the room. As they paused, Folmon could almost see them looking around. "He was here." The figure said. He recognized the voice, deep, resonant. The same voice that had answered his call from the window. He knew this man. One of the field slaves that worked the lord's estate.

And then. "Dhere you are!"

Hands seized Folmon by his ankles and dragged him from under the bed. The field slave yelled for others as other humans surged into the room, and in moments fists and boots were upon him.

They dragged him, bloodied, from the bedchamber, his head careening off of toppled and broken furniture as we was carried through the hallway, again he struck his head as they wrenched him down the steps of the veranda out front onto the dirt.

Outside the world was madness.

Humans gathered around the central courtyard of the estate ground. Folmon knew the lord kept at least a hundred field slaves and some of the other elgan and even a few free humans had their own. By the looks of it they were almost all here jeering; a host of black shadowy figures that blended together in an amorphous mass in the starlight. And then the figures closed around him, shouting strange oaths as they began kicking and beating him once again.

The humans were everywhere here, crowded around. Amidst the shuffling feet and raining of blows he could see one or two other survivors being put to similar treatment by the mob. Folmon knew they had broken his left arm and several ribs. Every time the beating paused, men would call to kill them now but others just shouted 'Not yet' as they took turns with the beatings.

Spitting blood and fragments of teeth onto the dirt, he recalled seeing his cousin with her young infant sitting propped against the side of the house, mother and child weeping together. Next to them a humanness with dirt on her face emerged from the house, wearing a fine dress that was two sizes two long her - she giggled and laughed as she hopped down the steps and did a little pirouette while onlookers clapped.

Another boot connected with Folmon's fac and his vision went dark. The last thought before he went out was that this might be the last thought he ever had.

This was the end for him.




Folmon's vision, the aching pain, and taste of blood in his mouth came back. He was aware of some other figures standing over him. It took a moment to realize these new humans hadn't been there before, and were arguing with the slaves. It was only then he realized the beating had stopped.

His heart skipped a beat as he heard a gunshot go off, and he realized one of the men had fired a pistol into the air.

"Listen! Tiss man belongs to Cause now! Dhese tings all belong to Cause. You take dhese tings, you are estealing from your Brodhers and eSisters! We need dhese tings for Cause. For dhe fight!"

Several of the young men were arguing, but it was clear these men were different from the field slaves - many Folmon realized he recognized. The newcomers were strangers though. Threadbare, the speaker carried two pistols tucked into his belt. The others carried muskets and swords, or spears - they looked and carried themselves more like Owned Men than slaves or even wealthy freemen. Around them people seemed to listen to these men.

The speaker seemed disinclined to engage with the men arguing, instead he turned away as another pair of figures - who seemed to know the newcomers - engaged with the young men. In the meantime the leader of the group turned to the rest of the group milling around. "You are free men now - dhere is imperial garrison tree hours ride - if you wish to remain not just free but alive: you will listen! We need men, right now to watch dhe road! You! You! Yes you. Go." He pointed to two men who nodded and ran off.

As Folmon lay in a pool of his own blood he watched this man. It was only at this point he fully realized he had not, in fact died, and there was a slim - albeit paltry hope - he might not die. It came too with the dawning realization these were no ordinary bandits raiding farms for desperation. This hadn't been some spontaneous uprising. This human quickly set to work organizing this mob. Posting sentries. Ordering the slaves to gather up everything they had looted. To Folmon's astonishment they obeyed, gathering everything together into a room in the manor house - himself included - where they posted sentries. The man in charge told the guards that if anyone tried to steal anything, or harm or take the captives they were to shoot that person; and that if they did not he would find and shoot them himself.

In total they gathered seven elgan survivors of the thirty or so that had lived and worked upon the estate. The lord was away, but of his family only the youngest daughter had survived and to her some of the humans made unspeakable promises, this despite the girl being no older than 12. One of the other men who'd survived - and been beaten like Folmon - was dragged away and killed.

"We will kill you too soon enough." One of his captors assured him after it happened.

The leader of the armed men held court, of a sort, in the room next to where Folmon was guarded. When one of the slave guards mentioned that they could hear what was said the man waved dismissively saying in his lilting peasant accent. "It no matter what dhey hear."

So Folmon listened through the night as the man gathered up those who knew the area. He learned he was a lieutenant of Skotinodasos, a name Folmon actually recognized as being one of the many escaped slaves that roamed the lands around the Morktree. The authorities had posted notices that he was wanted for years now. He could see now, why they hadn't yet been caught. These men were far more organized than he'd ever imagined slave bandits to be. They spoke little and tolerated no nonsense from the field slaves. The slaves seemed to listen to them because they carried themselves like masters.

He'd heard there was a brigand problem near Rodelkog, but for them to strike this far north and west of the Morktree. To strike so brazenly a lord's manor. This could have easily gone poorly for them.

Listening to their conversations he also discovered this was no simple farm raid by outlaws.

Through the night they organized the slaves, and from the conversations it sounded as the local rabble had been in contact with these men in organizing all this. Which made sense, as a rule the human slaves as a rule were of a pedigree and intelligence that even their fellow humans looked down upon them. These men though whipped the slaves into a frenzy, sending several as messengers to adjacent farms and estates, passing messages to other conspirators that Folmon couldn't overhear.

Folmon realized then that what was happening here, wasn't just here. They were raiding other farms as well.

Then he set the rest of the slaves to work doing things like gathering and preparing the animals, loading the wagons with what had been collected. Then they began setting fire to all they could not carry.

It was at this point Folmon and the others were carried outside, him relying on the assistance of his fellow prisoners to move. It was there he saw not only the bodies of the lords family, some of his own friends and family among them, but he was surprised to see several humans dangling from the trees as well.

When Folmon asked his captors about this, they spat and told him these humans were worse than elgan: human overseers, drivers and informants. When he asked why they hadn't killed him yet, they again assured him not to worry and that they would kill him soon as well.

Well before dawn, the bandit lieutenant and his men left with several of the more capable field slaves who'd collected up the collection of pistols, muskets, swords and other weapons kept on the estate to keep the humans in line. One of the humans that knew the area well, claimed they knew an area any force responding from the garrison would have to pass. They left one man behind to collect what they could.

As dawn approached Folmon and the other prisoners were moved west with the impromptu caravan to a small human farm that had already been abandoned. The bandit that accompanied them then split the group, the laden wagons carrying on west, while he led a group of some of the more active slaves and unladen wagons and animals south to meet up with some other group. Folmon's guards were ordered to wait there, and expect other prisoners to be brought.

Prisoners from two other, smaller manors arrived. All in state of shock. Mostly women and children. Only one other man joined Folmon, though he appeared to have escaped the sort of beating Folmon and his companion had sustained.

Through the day they waited. In the absence of the bandits Folmon could hear the guards becoming less certain of their position. They sat on logs around a fire together roasting chickens while Folmon and the rest of the prisoners were tied up in the ramshackle peasant barn-shack structure on a farm that had clearly been abandoned years ago, such that a tree now grew from the collapsed thatch roof of the building.

Above them though it was daylight, the whole of the countryside was set in a sicky dark and yellow haze. Beyond they could see a vast ring-like glow of red, like an angry sunrise that seemed as though it encircled the whole of the world. At times, it was difficult to even speak or breath for the coughing.

"By God, Inbur is burning." Folmon remembered the lord's daughter saying, uttering a prayer as she gazed forlornly over the thick black plumes of smoke rising high, turning day into unnatural red twilight.

It wasn't just one or two farms they were hitting. Those four men had probably been to several through the night - sending fresh men they recruited on site onward to rise up. In his mind's eye Folmon could almost see it, like a wave of fire unfolding across the countryside.

Seeing their distress, one of the men around the fire - whiskey dripping down the front of his shirt pointed and laughed at them. "Dhe Skotinodasos has called dhe olde magick - dhe world itself casts off dhe wickedness of dhe Elgafolk and he raised dhe Red Dawn!"

Despite the man's bluster, Folmon could hear that in the conversations amongst themselves their captors were less confident. They had expected more to come, that someone would tell them where to go next and as the day wore on, they worried riders from the Imperial Garrison would be coming soon. Folmon could almost sense their former confidence evaporating and the slow growing terror at the prospect that something had gone wrong and they'd now been forgotten and abandoned by their comrades.

If he'd been at all ambulatory, even unarmed, Folmon had the notion that with their passions spent it would take nothing at all to scattered these men. He'd lay a thrashing upon them with bare hands these, little more than frightened sheep with nary a spine among them, were ready to crack and run or beg for their lives.

"Why have you done all this then? Surely you know you and your kind will suffer for it in the end?" Folmon eventually gathered the temerity to ask them.

They responded, to Folmon's astonishment, that Emperor Voron II had issued a decree granting all human subjects their freedom, and giving equal status under the law - but that the Elgan lords were refusing to obey the emperor's orders.

"I've never heard such a thing." Folmon said after a moment of being struck dumb by this incredible statement.

One of them went on at length about the 'true state of affairs' in the empire. He claimed that the authorities were lying to the human and elgafolk alike. That in The West The Dawnbringer had come, and demanded the Empire release the human slaves. Folmon listened to the deluded human for a time, out of sheer fascination with the sheer imagination of it all.

He claimed that the brigand problem was in fact a conspiracy of armies, all risen up by The Dawnbringer to free the people before leading a final glorious charge upon the Blight. He claimed this was all foretold by a prophet, Skotinodasos, who foretold the end of the blight was at hand, but all attempts to end it would fail before the humans of Haltia were free of all exploitation. He then went on to talk about secret societies that secretly controlled the Empire.

The man was all energy as he explained that the old Emperor had finally had enough of them, so he'd been killed, and now these secret societies backed Volon's brother. It all continued for some time, but Folmon stopped listening when the human got into how the dwarves were not all gone, but in fact, secretly had their hands in the affairs of all the kingdoms of the world.

"Everyone is saying these things!" The drunken human captor exclaimed. His fellows nodded, but seemed less enthusiastic on the subject and inclined to let this human be their spokesperson.

In fact, Folmon knew no one had been saying anything of this sort, though it the proof was clear that the brigand problem was - in fact - far more out of hand than he'd imagined. He very much doubted any force of brigands had defeated an Imperial Army at Rodelkog! Much that rebels had risen everywhere and won three victories all at once. This was some of the most astonishing nonsense Folmon had ever heard.

In any case Folmon decided it was best not to argue with the deluded, albeit heavily armed, fools. Instead he merely commented that their present course seemed, to him, a doomed endeavor.

Eventually when Folmon stopped responding to them, they went back to arguing over what to do. As dusk approached they seemed to reason out what was plainly obvious to Folmon and the other captives from the beginning: that with the Garrison being less than a day's hard ride, last night's raid would surely have reached the garrison and Imperial riders would certainly be on their way now. In the meantime no word had come for them about where to move next and they were in a state about what to do and where to go.

As it became dark, they elected one among their number to proceed to the nearest farm and learn the state of affairs and resolved that he should return to them by midnight.

The three remaining humans began to settle in for the night. They were lazy watchers, and it was more than possible for any of those prisoners who could've walked to have escaped - but they reasoned it with brigands everywhere running amok and watching the roads it was safer to wait among these men - who despite repeatedly threatening them with certain death, and the obvious menace they posed when roused, seemed to lack the nerve required for truly cold-blooded murder.

The onset of night did nothing to ameliorate the glowing upon the horizon. If anything the the aura of red menace only grew more potent as what little sun percolated through the smoke and cloud disappeared below the horizon. Folmon and the other prisoners speculated with wonder that it seemed the revolt was continuing, spreading like wildfire itself and they wondered just how far it might go.

The fourth man never returned at midnight, or what these men reckoned must've been midnight for the smoke obscured all attempts to reckon time. Even so, exhausted and hurt, Folmon fell in and out of sleep.

Folmon was wakened in the night by their captors having a row. They were certain Imperial cavalry would be arriving today, a notion Folmon and the other prisoners did nothing to dissuade and indeed themselves had fervently prayed together for deliverance. Now down to three, two were of the opinion they should leave before light. The third, a stalwart, argued that someone had to come for them and they should wait.

The argument turned again and again. They worried themselves into frenzy whether cavalry was already near and the others dead and that was why their comrade or others had come. Or perhaps they'd simply been abandoned in all the looting. In either event things were coming to a head and for a time they argued that they could move faster if they killed the prisoners.

It was there Folmon's fellow prisoners insisted they should not be a trouble or burden, and would ensure even Folmon and the other wounded man not slow them down.

This seemed to settle the matter for a time, but it became clear that among the three the one was firmly set that they should wait as ordered.

With no consensus reached and dawn fast - or likely since no one knew for and the smoke obscured all - approaching, the two humans waited until their companion was relieving himself in the woods. Then they quickly hitched the wagon to the pony left to them, along with what supplies had been in the wagon and quickly departed.

When the human fellow returned to find his companions had abandoned him, even Folmon - who till now had felt little but hatred for these wretched murderers - felt some measure of sympathy for the poor lad.

He'd known the human from the estate, not rough or normally inclined to rebellion or violence at all. It was clear he'd been caught up in things, put up to doing evil deeds by evil men and now after having done everything asked of him, had simply abandoned him.

For all that he pitied the human's plight, Folmon could see the young man weighing the rest of his likely short life as the cold human eyes fell upon him and his fellow prisoners. "You two are too wounded to be moved without dhe wagon." He said pointing at Folmon and the other wounded man. As he approached them, withdrawing a large bladed knife that trembled in his hand. "Dhe oters I can take."

He spoke, looking at Folmon as though offering an apology.

"You don't need to kill us. You were put up to this. Your fellows abandoned you. If you spare us we'll put in a good word for you." Folmon offered, rolling painfully on his side to better face the human.

Folmon had expected an argument. To have to convince this human, even beg for his life but this young human who'd already seemed terrified before relented at just this.

The human even offered to free those who were ambulatory of their bonds if they promised he wouldn't be killed. Folmon and the lord's daughter both assured him that was the case, and the human set about cutting the others free and even agreed to share with them what food and wine he had with him. Again the prospect of leaving was brought up, but even in mixed company they reasoned it was better to stay put than risk the roads.

Morning was another red sunrise. The wind began to pick up and howl, which only fanned the flames and at times it was difficult to see down the road or even breathe though from here they never laid eyes on naked flame. Together Folmon sat, waiting. Human and elga together worldlessy went through the motions of gathering water from an old well, preparing a meal. All of them gripped by the same hope and terror of what figures might finally issue forth from the dusty storm of smoke and fire, delivering upon one or another of their mixed party deliverance and destruction in equal measure.

It was in this moment that human and elga sat about and prayed together for some deliverance from this predicament they now found themselves.

None could say how many hours passed, but either the smoke had drawn thicker or the dusk settled in because it had begun to darken once again when the thundering of hoof and calls of elgan horsemen came storming up the lonely worn wagon road. Folmon's cousin went out to waive and attract the rider's attention to the run-down buildings, and the young human immediately agreed to turn over his weapons over to the lord's daughter and the only uninjured elgan man amongst them.

"Just don't let dhem kill me, yeah?" The terrified boy insisted, his eyes wide with terror.

They all agreed they'd make sure to protect the human, who'd stayed with them and kept them alive while the riders wheeled from the road and approached warily through the rough hedge of broken cedars that at one time had probably been some farmer's field. The lord's daughter went to greet the group, explaining that this human had stayed with them and protected them against the other bandits, and his fellows abandoned them and that they'd promised to spare his life for being so good to them.

"That so?" The imperial sergeant said looking down from his, quite literally, high horse to where the young human cowered and kowtowed, pressing his face into the dirt while the horse gasped, and huffed, flicking its tail wildly against the flies that harried it.

With one swift movement the sergeant swung his pistol from his belt in a wide arc, before the entire astonished crowd. Folmon only had time for his mouth to open in silent shock as the sergeant's pistol drew level with the human's head and the snap of flint and crack of thunder, the musket set the human's skull to exploding like an overripe melon.

Folmon recalled looking up and seeing the lord's daughter looking down in horror at the sight, her night-dress even more ruined than it had been before, blood and bits of human skull, which still had brains clinging to them, dripping down the front of her shocked face.

"We lost three men to those fuckers on the way out." The sergeant's tone was impatient as he reloaded and primed his pistol again. "We counted near 50 elgafolk these brigands murdered on our way here. Women and children. Fucking animals!" He spit on the dead human from atop his horse then.

The lord's daughter intervened then and she and the sergeant had a bit of a row over the matter, but neither the sergeant nor his fellow harquebusiers were in much mood to listen. In any event Folmon wagered their sorry group of prisoners was in a poor bargaining position. The riders sent for spare mounts that a few young lads were minding some distance back. They had no wagons though, and as Folmon was too injured to ride himself he was obliged to suffer the indignity of being slung over the back of another rider's horse like a sack of sod.

From this disgraced position, Folmon had little recourse except to stare helplessly at the solitary human corpse, left in a pool of his own blood for the dogs as they galloped away.

He learned from his riding companion virtually the whole of the countryside was on fire as far as any of them had been able to ride. There were rumours some battle or another had taken place with the bandits in Rodelkog, but no messengers had come from any of the other towns and while they'd scattered or cut down every human they'd come across, slaves and peasants had disappeared from the fields and taken to killing and banditry everywhere.

"Is it just here?" Folmon asked.

"No fucking clue. We ain't heard shit from nobody but the ones came riding into the garrison screaming bloody murder that the humans were gone all fuckety." The rider growled, and even showed him where a musket ball had grazed his arm and narrowly missed shattering his shoulder. "We got ambushed three fucking times on the way here and there's a good chance we'll run into another bunch on the way back."

The unnamed harquebusier' prediction proved prescient when the men at the front of the party stopped their group, seeing movement in the distance along one of the stone fences. The sergeant ordered the forward group to find another way round. By this point they were running low on powder, the horses hadn't been properly rested or fed and they were eager to make way back to the Fagwyn Estate, which owing to stone construction hadn't been fully destroyed. There was no food or fodder for the animals there but it was still defensible: as it seemed unlikely they would make it back to the garrison tonight.

Folmon was put up in a room with the other wounded man, his injuries given short thrift by an elgan officer who admitted having no formal training beyond familiarity with patching busted up soldiers. One of the women, a seamstress from Inbur, that had survived the ordeal with him ended up being the one bringing him food and water and changing his dressings.

It was from her he learned the horses were growing hungry and restless. This group had killed more than 100 humans they'd found, for the 50 or so elgafolk they'd murdered, though she tearfully admitted one of those killed had been one of her assistants who'd hidden her during the initial bloodletting and had taken no part in the bloody business.

That night one of the men posted sentry was killed and another wounded before the bandits were scattered back into the woods. The Owned Men claimed to have killed three but when the searched the treeline come morning they found no bodies and concluded their comrades must have dragged the bodies from the field.

They road back to the garrison the next day, taking a few sporadic - ineffective shots - from the treeline before returning to find the garrison and the surrounding community in a bloody mind. Most of the farms and fields they past were in a state of absolute devastation. Blackened, charred, fields and buildings that at points stretched as far as one could see.

Virtually the whole of the garrison had ridden out and split off to cover more ground as the extent of the revolt became apparent. Despite having burned much of the surrounding countryside - including the pastures and fields where fodder that supplied the garrison horses - the people here were confident and bloody minded in lieu of what had happened.

The fires continued to burn in places though the worst of it had begun to die down by the fourth day. There'd still been no word from the outside world, the roads everywhere were teaming with brigands. In the area within a day or two of the county garrison, no less than 100 farms, granaries and stables had been looted and destroyed. In the following days it was found over 400 elgafolk had been murdered by the butchers, including many of region's leading families and personalities.

Others were missing. Presumably taken. The rumours were spread among human and elgafolk alike these brigands were killing everyone they took. The men had promised he would be killed, but Folmon hadn't been so sure.

Paranoia was rampant, and Folmon even heard some of the elgafolk women treating him beginning to whisper that the humans were placing curses on people - causing them to whither and die, children to be brought forth stillborn and bring other calamities upon them. In the aftermath the garrison counted just under 2,000 humans killed in retribution attacks - many though were women and children, and others he knew for fact were simply victims of runaway paranoia. At least that number of men were missing - either hiding in the woods in solitary bands while some, Folmon suspected, had shacked up with the armed humans that had been in charge.

Folmon was disheartened by many things. He felt nothing but rage and the desperate need to be rid of his injuries to get his own bloody satisfaction against the murderers who'd done this, even as he realized there were men in the towns and garrisons striking blindly at any human they saw. He was disheartened by worry about supplies and lack of news from outside. Perhaps most of all though, he was frustrated the officers who'd spoken with him seemed to put little stock in his warnings.

They seemed to think him a man with little sense, disturbed by shock. They were dismissive of his warnings that while the slaves were easily cowed, there'd been men among them who'd seemed of a different sort and caliber altogether.

"I put little stock in these rumours of black magic or rituals - I've never known the human folk magic to be good for anything. But I tell you, I knew the humans that performed the attack. They worked the area for years and never would have done this on their own. But these others - they were different. I'd never seen them before and they had a plan, and the slaves and peasants listened to them."

"We've broken every group we've met out there. They're probably dead already." The officer noted, though Folmon asked and no one could recall stripping anyone so heavily armed as these men had been. "Some of those bandits know a thing or two, they can seem intimidating certainly, but they break all the same when they meet real Haltian steel. Get your rest, sir. You've been through an ordeal. We'll have this sorted by the time you're better."

This was the assurance Folmon was given, and he knew he should have faith. Putting humans in their place was what the Haltian Empire did after all, but still, he wasn't quite so sure.
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Hidden 4 days ago Post by Pragia12
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Pragia12 Chaos and Conspiracy

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Dimitri Halfelgan, Colonel of the “Bloody Hands of Mitteland”

Alveby, Capital of the Haltian Empire


The city of Alveby is a city of conflicting realities: once a place where the Elgan clans would meet to resolve disputes, it had become a settled city of the greatest empire on the planet. Many buildings beyond the heart were pavilion tents that could, hypothetically, be drawn up and taken on a caravan, but had never been so moved. Embellished tapestries wavered in the gentle breeze, and above the palace loomed, made from river limestone it gleamed a beige-gray.

The usually-bustling streets, once packed with traders from every corner of the sprawling state and lands beyond, were empty. The breeze blew, but no voices were heard on the wind. The city had been abandoned by its people, for they knew that another wind was blowing. The wind of war had bid everyone to leave, and they were right to obey.

The victory at Lysfelt was decisive, but the work of the Halfelgan was far from done here. Before the Emperor would take his seat, it was his duty to clear it of interlopers. Such a grim task was to be taken by those who could not afford to have their honor sullied. And so Dimitri found himself in the courtyard, where bodies were being laid out to be taken to burial or the pyres by his men.

At his flank was a single accompanying guard, a Jedgorsy man who petitioned for transfer to his regiment named Boris. He was notably shorter, but also stockier. He had a pair of pistols dangling from his belt, whereas the Colonel had a half dozen spread between his waist and chest. All had been expended multiple times in battle today, but they were loaded and ready nevertheless.

Most of the work had been done: servants and courtiers were ‘encouraged’ to report any potential disloyal individuals by their recommendation. Anyone with multiple fingers pointed in their direction was executed, and anyone with only a couple were exiled. Dimitri would take the time to enter the throne room.

“Seems the Emperor is truly gone.” Boris says

Dimitri would nod, a small shaking of his head “Yes, and the cowardly kinslayer Voron has already fled.” he sighs, looking to that high chair “The Empire is at death’s door, comrade.”

Boris too would eye it, taking steps towards it “Which is why we should hurry with this and run them down. Please sir, we could already be on their rearguard.”

“We could.” the Halfelgan nods, a small scowl on his face “But Emperor Orrian has said to secure the city.” he says sternly.

“With respect to the Emperor, he is wrong. We could have had that traitor in our grasp.” he says, reaching the top of the steps and standing before the throne.

Dimitri’s words were firm “Careful, Boris. There is a plan to this, and the symbols of empire must be respected.”

The heavier man would grunt “Please. Orrian doesn’t have what it takes to kill his brother, and he couldn’t have a /human/ be the hero of his cause.” he’d take a seat in the throne.

No sooner than he had seated himself, the taller man was upon Boris, tearing him from the seat and throwing him to stairs without an utterance of exertion. The soldier would begin trying to scramble, but the jackboot of the Colonel would crash into his side, and he would remain down, groaning. “You see Boris, time is on our side. The pretenders are making their moves, and Voron will die surrounded by failure and misery.” he says sharply.

“What the fuck are you doing…” another boot to the softer flesh of his kidney.

“If we were in a less perilous time, I would have beaten you to death for taking that throne. Consider this my mercy.” He would plant his other boot on that pistol, and continue pummeling him. By the time Boris was unconscious, Dimitri would raise it off the weapon slowly and regard that seat, so much smaller now that he stood at eye level with it.

“Please forgive the foolishness of my man, he knows not what he does. He will become one of us soon enough in your service.” He spoke to an emperor that was no longer there.

“I did not expect to lose you in my lifetime, O’ Eternal Conqueror, subjugator of nations, King of Kings. Immortality is a blessing granted to the children of El’Mokosh, and it has been wasted on your firstborn. Your death shall be avenged, and if the gods and fates will, it will be by my hands that your people are delivered as well as my own.” He speaks aloud, just below a normal speaking voice, a solemnity dancing on his tongue as he speaks in Elgan.

“I may not be granted immortality by grace, but I will gain immortality in the only way a Man can: on the battlefield.” He would give a firm salute before taking slow, deliberate steps back out of the throne room. There was work to be finished.
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Hidden 2 days ago Post by Festive
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Festive Homo Ex Imagine Dei Partus Est

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→ A Quite Night in Grendell
Some day, some hour, somewhere, a long, long time ago.


The day had never matched the night. Not even on the brightest days in which light had illuminated all that one's eye could see upon the battlefield. A light which cast a heat upon rolling fields and showed the slightest movement in the grass as the wind swept it with a hand of grace likened to a mother upon a child’s head. A light that gleamed off the polish of his blade and reflected off the surface of his arrow laden in the quiver upon his waist, one which almost blinded his eyes when shone upon that of the armor worn lowly as they fought for a land that wasn’t theirs anymore. Yet, even on the most beautiful days in which the sun brightened the color of the flowers often found on the fields and smiles on his men’s faces when a battle won, an Inburian dealt with, Rhistel couldn’t help but relinquish to the beckoning call of night’s voice with an allure akin to those sirens, whose voices could carry but any man astray, herald in his sister’s silly tales of young. He couldn’t help but resist the ever-grasping hands of the land of dreams as they clawed at the back of his head to just get a glimpse of all that the night contained. It was such a far outcry from the life he lived, a reprieve, almost, from the days he faced upon that sun that most would consider their saving grace.

Rhistel tightened his gloved hand a bit more upon the reigns of his horse, as they rode softly upon the darkened field in which only hours ago his hands had participated in the waste that had been laid to it. Although with eyes as old as his they had been marred by sights much worse than the current one that sat to the side of him, a deeper part could bring his body to fully bring his head to face the full field as Rhistel continued down the random path the wind had carved for him. The two continued at a light, steady, pace that was almost silent save for breath against the chill that had cursed the lands, and the clanking of the metal which served his saving grace for life but too many times against that of his horse’s armor. His eyes glanced back to the encampment he had departed but minutes ago as the light of flames that roared behind him ever so slowly dimmed from view. The moon had called him away, it always had on nights similar to the one he was enduring. Since but a wee Elgan he had always felt this sense, a temptation to see the night, the sky, all those little marks which dotted the vast expanse whose light always shone with a ferocity but was snuffed by the likes of the sun. Within those marks, within those streaks of colored lights he had likened to the ‘night’s clouds’ he found something. It was a place he was alone. A place where but in his mind only himself and the heavenly bodies existed. One free of war, free of commitment, free of obligations. One where Rhistel could embrace himself again, not simply the Captain Rhistel who stood responsible for the life of his men, for assisting Voron in building their great land, but as a Rhistel the shepherd, with the sky as his sheep. Where he could run his thoughts among their brilliance as he did with his hands through the fluff of his herd.

The hairs that stood on the back of his nose were singed as he trekked through the depth of the field. The pungent force of the miasma that rose from the body of the dead permeated the surroundings as a smell that his nose would never lose the memory of. While the sun can cast upon these lands beautiful sights, its power is one that brings forth but reality as well, as it bakes those whose lives have faded from this plane. While these lands were mostly flat, they were laden sparsely with small hills among the dulled greenery. As the best vantage point had come into his view, Rhistel turned his head back slightly. While further away from the camp than he had foretold to his comrades he would be, he needed this time for the days that were destined for them grew closer as the hours passed. His stomach lowered deeper into his chest, his heart felt a small pang as the thought of losing the young men he had come to take under his wing was like he had been crossed into his mind. Such are the days his fight continues to prevent from being brought into the realm of reality. His speed fell slightly as the point came closer and closer.

As his horse continued his slow trek across the dirt and up the slight incline, he brought him to a stop as they reached the highest point upon this whole plain, a quaint little hill one which was dwarfed by the mountains he lived among, the mountains he grew into the man he was now upon that hill. Yet he took it in with but the same respect as he held for the mountains. Rhistel’s hands came close as he pulled the leather from his fingers to free them into the chill then repeated the same action upon his other hand. His fingers, long in their grasp, laid down upon the rough iron laden with a nip of frost which constructed his helmet and lifted the leather that lined the inside up from his bleached locked beneath. His hair, now long from the days of seemingly endless battle and movement, fell and splayed upon his shoulders. Rhistel placed the helmet on his lap, and with but a wave of his hand swished the hair from out of his face and shook his head slightly to bring the locks into a collective behind him. A sigh fell from his lips as the heat turned the air foggy, it was a lone, almost solemn sigh as he let all the air from his system before bringing it back with a deep breath. It was in these times the world almost felt empty. The blue of his eyes, scanned his surroundings for a last time before gazing them into the expanse he could but never touch. His eyes feasted upon the sight in silence as he looked above.

It was as if the world had never stood so still. That expanse, one larger than even a battlefield on the flattest of plains could stretch. Despite the darkness that took most light within its maw, the fragments still shone through with persistence as it graced him with its light. The specks of brilliance almost made him forget the peril that faced them each day. Though their numbers were strong, and their horses were stronger, the threat before them continued with their trek further, and further away from the west. And as his eyes continued to train upon the vastness, the centerpiece of it all drew in his mind more than the stars could wish. The moon,as it stood in a rare state as it had been freshly healed by the Gods, shone its heavenly light with its full glory. Not a piece of it was gone as it stood the brightest among the stars. He gazed into its brightness as cured the never-ending emptiness of the sky, its beauty was one that could be captured by the eye, unlike the sun’s glory. It was this brightness that always called for him. Whether he stood among his sheep with his father’s staff as they grazed the fields, or whether he held his sword in hand cleaning it after a battle, it had always been that same moon. For decades, for centuries, always that same moon, beckoning for his embrace. His eyes closed as he took deeply the cold air through his lungs. Rhistel held that moment close, he held it tight in silence, it was very rare that in the midst of this war, he had truly felt but an ounce of peace, yet at that moment he grasped it like a lifeline. His flame in this cold

With a final exhale, the air left his lungs, and an opening of his pearly blues, the peace faded with it. While these moments were but a short blip in time, they had always felt to Rhistel like he sat there for much, much longer. He couldn’t indulge in these moments as long as he wanted, he had men to lead, land the conquer, he was but a pulley in a system much larger than himself. Rhistel's hands reached back to the mess of hair behind his head as he pulled it up before using his other hand to lower the helmet back to its spot. His hands slipped the gloves back onto his digits as he prepared to return to camp. His hands had gripped the reins as a soft smile formed on his lips beneath the dark of the helmet, his eyes glanced up to the sky once more.

No sky had ever looked this grand.
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The present day


The grit laden across what appeared to be a smooth surface of stone rubbed against the callouses that lay upon his palms. His grip had loosened only a bit as a breath fell from his lips out into the open air beyond. Rhistel’s eyelids rose from his blues as the vast speckled dark came fully into his mind once again. It was a sight that never got old to the man whose life stretched far beyond all that should be possible in this realm. As he stood there upon the balcony a soft touch of the summer's warmth slid across the surface of the cream of his waistcoat with the wind’s rolling. Like days of old, he stood as all he is and has been beneath the stripping eye of the moon, a body in the sky which saw him candidly, beneath the prim of a merchant, beneath the grit of a soldier. As but the same moon his ancestors looked upon his mind pondered if any had felt but this same connection he had with the body.

While within the sky he had found his peace, his eyes fell down upon the sprawling city of Grendell under his feet. Such was a city in which peace had vacated, which it had been slain in the square with little remorse despite the outcry of the citizenry. The Blight had made it so peace shall never touch the city, the pretenders had made it into an even further goal to reach. His blues watched as the imperial army patrolled the streets below, he had known that in present days regiments trained even long beyond the fall dusk. His ears had been greeted by the hearsay of words spouting off regarding the loss of Voron II at Lysfelt against his own brother. The great land he had fought to forge was a fractured curse of division that grew with the passing days. Even lowly peasants could see the cracks in the once-thought-impenetrable stone that was the empire.

His hands released the stone that supported his body with a step back away from the railing, and the light humid breeze rolled through once more as he stepped into the office he had held for decades. ”I never understood that, you know.” Rhistel’s hands softly closed the double doors to the balcony with a turn of a head as the voice spoke out to him. ”It’s not very hard to understand, Flin.” A small smile graced his lips as he gazed upon the slightly younger man who sat with his ancient spirit upon the sofa. A small yet ornate glass sat betwixt his fingers filled with a crimson liquid which swished with a soft, rosy aroma as he moved to fix his posture. ”Yeah, I know, I know, internal peace, something along those lines.”

”See, you get it.”Rhistel moved to the area in which Flinar sat, his hand gripping the bottle of wine that sat upon the side table, filling his own glass before taking a seat opposite of the man. ”But why?”

”Why what?” Rhistel uttered, bringing the glass to his lips.

”Why do you keep doing it? The last time you rode into battle was centuries ago. Rhistel, we are at peace.”

”You know, sometimes I think I have never truly left that field. Left my horse. Why do I keep doing it? My friend, a lifelong habit never leaves you.” A soft chuckle fell from Rhistel’s lips before continuing. ”Why do we really do anything, right? Like you, centuries upon these seas yet now is when you decide to anchor?”

A small sigh came from Flinar’s mouth, ”I do love it, Rhistel. The stakes, the seas, and by God, even the drag that is the board meetings. Yet, one child takes precedence over the other, this one still has you, Orist… Well, he only has me.”

”I.. I’m sorry, Flin. Mael, she was truly a wonder.” A somber, soft smile creeped onto Flinar’s lips as he looked over and out the window. ”Don’t be, Rhistel. No Elgan lives forever. She was a strong woman, never a day without a fight with her hard head. She died as she lived. All we can do is honor her life.”

”That is true.” Only the scraping of the breeze against the office’s windows was heard, and silence permeated throughout the room. The last sound fell from Rhistel’s lips. He raised his glass, now low in contents, up slightly as Flinar followed suit.

The silence lingered with only the swish of the liquid sounding off as Flinar refiled his glass. ”But, hey, look at it this way, you’ll always have a piece of me telling you no.” Flinar broke the silence with a smile and a soft laugh.

”Ah yes, the other child you have left me with.”

”We both know she deserved that seat. For as young as she stands, she is naught but qualified. And lighten up a bit, Rhistel, don’t you forget the days her words even tricked you. Practically my spitting image!”

”Oh that girl is a copy of you alright. Almost too similar, it’s like she took both you and Mael’s most frustrating traits.” The two men both gave a laugh as Rhistel finished speaking. ”I love the girl like she is my own kin, yet I don’t think the board has taken too kindly.”

”They’ll come around, just give her time.”

”I hope so, Flin.”

A knock sounded off from the door as the words flowed from Rhistel, his eyes panned over from his friend with a solitary phrase a lanky servant slipped into the room slowly but with a touch of grace to his movements as he shut the door behind his entrance and carried within his hands a platter with but a single envelope upon its surface. “My lord, a carrier has just arrived upon the premise with this delivery for you”

”Who is it from, Lanster” Rhistel uttered, his hand lifting the cream-colored letter from off the silver-made surface. ”General Krawiec, my lord.” His eyes lingered upon the red wax seal plastered with the indent of the Empire as it hovered before his face. Rhistel took the opener that sat beside the letter and used the blade to retrieve the white paper from within before discarding the remnants back onto the platter and sending the boy away. ”Thank you, Lanster, you may go.” His hands slid under the creases of the folded parchment, straightening it back into its standard form before reading the contents.

“Is the empire looking to discuss their contracts again?” Flinar asked as he leaned back into the sofa. ”No, dinner. With one General Oskar Krawiec.”

”I know him, the Jedgorsy, correct?”

”I believe so.”

”Are you going to go?”

Rhistel sat his wine glass upon the side table along with the letter and leaned slightly forward in his chair. ”I don’t see why not. The empire has been a loyal patron for centuries now, it’s only courtesy. I shall talk to the rest of the board about it tomorrow. But tonight is your night, my friend. Let’s drink like the night we did after our first finished contract!”

”You don’t have to tell me twice!” Flinar laughed, raising his glass towards Rhistel for him to follow suit picking back up his own glass and clanking it against his friend’s.

For Rhistel, the night was his grace. And the moon cured but all his worries.

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Hidden 2 days ago Post by InfamousGuy101
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Alberic Thorel

Port of Rodelkog





The harbor was alive with the sound of waves lapping against the hulls of ships and the rhythmic calls of sailors preparing for departure. The air carried the scent of brine and wood tar, mingling with the distant scent of roasted fish from a nearby market stall.

Inside a small, dimly lit cabin near the pier, Alberic sat alone at a wooden table, the flickering lantern casting long shadows on the walls. The parchment before him bore the ink of his restless mind, his quill hovering for a moment as he contemplated his next words.

The war was moving faster than he had expected. Would Andronika and Coralie truly work together, or would their ambitions rip them apart before the real fight even began? Mainland rulers had a way of turning allies into rivals faster than any storm at sea.

But deep down, Alberic cared little for who sat on the throne of some shattered empire.

The Isles were what mattered. Vich, Emiddly, Favis—his people. Coralie had brought so many Corsairs to her side, more than he thought possible. If she had that much sway, what did that mean for the League? Did Gerart and the Council of Captains still hold any power, or had they become little more than ghosts in an era they no longer controlled?

His real loyalty lay with the League, with the dream of a united Circle Sea, and more importantly, with Aonène.

She was the true Uniter, the one who could break the cycle of blood between Vich and Emiddly and forge something greater. But she was out here, tangled in the affairs of landlocked wars, when she should have been back rallying the isles, standing before the League, and taking what was rightfully hers.

With a frustrated sigh, Alberic sealed the message he had just finished writing—a direct call to Gerart and the others. A plea, or a warning, depending on how they saw it. Coralie was rising, and if the League didn’t move soon, they’d be answering to her instead of calling their own shots.

Just as he finished, the door to the cabin creaked open, and one of Coralie’s messengers stepped inside.

“Message for the League?” the man asked, eyeing the sealed parchment.

Alberic handed it over. “Sealed and ready. Make sure it reaches them.”

The messenger took the letter and, without hesitation, pulled another scroll from his belt, wrapped in deep crimson ribbon and sealed with wax.

“This one’s for you,” the courier said.

Alberic furrowed his brow, taking the scroll. Coralie’s seal. He turned it over in his hands, but before he could break it open, the courier raised a hand.

“Open it once you’re aboard,” the messenger instructed, a knowing smirk playing at his lips. “Orders from the Empress.”

Alberic gave a slow nod, watching as the man left, disappearing into the bustling dockside.

Left alone with his thoughts, he turned the scroll between his fingers. What now, Coralie?

Outside, the ships were nearly ready to set sail. The war was moving. The tides were shifting. But to whose benefit?

He would soon find out.

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Hidden 14 hrs ago 14 hrs ago Post by TokyoPewPew
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𝕹o doubt the vultures of Rodelkog had not feasted this well in decades—maybe centuries. Even a single skyward, squinting appraisal said as much. Lazily they circled overhead, yawing on lethargic breezes, their bellies seeming to slosh with every pitch, every shrugging tilt. In disposition they such resembled men, stumbling from taverns at indecent hours—gorged and bloated, sighing and groaning, their gluttony straining them at the seams. But a great many beasts and creatures called Rodelkog their home; the outskirts and, for a time, when the silence and the absence had stolen in, the streets soaked in shadows, and the very walls which cast them. Voles and finches scratched at the wheelbarrows, the granaries, the trampling and the burning having crushed the fallow, broken the seeds from their blackened hulls. With them came stoats patting along on noiseless paws, owls on moonlight-dusted wings. Ratsnakes and foxes and kites, all drawn to the city's smoky emptiness, drinking deeply of its stillness.

The din of hammers soon enough had chased off these trespassers; the unshuttering of doors and windows, the protests of ungreased wheels. As the people returned to the still-smoldering streets of their city, so too did routine, and even a vestige of normalcy. They churned the fallow and buried again the spilt seeds; repaired the doors; cut new bricks for the walls, and stirred their blood into the mortar. There was grieving, of course. Cries and wails which went unheard by the beasts of the earth, returning to their burrows, their brooks, their copses. For while one world came unraveled and undone, another carried on, without very much interruption whatever. Hawk still ate fox ate owl ate stoat ate vole ate trampled wheat. And while the people wept, only the vultures seemed to hark.
Szaalm reckoned this to have been, at one or another time, a royal forest, or the erstwhile elf-lord's approximation of such; for how else could the trees, tall and aged and beautiful, have for so long eluded the lumberman's blades?—and how was the stream not infested with washer-women, with water wheels, with grazing herds and all their refuse?—......but no matter. It belonged to no lord now but to God, and that which belonged to God belonged to all who needed the shade from those estimable cypresses, a sup from clearer waters.

Young was the morn and still it gilt the groves from on high, still bejeweled every blade with dew; and stood the man before his congregation: the five hundred who had half a fortnight past returned from the walls of Rodelkog (and, perhaps, at least in memory and spirit, the hundred-and-fifty who had not). They who hadn't yet broken their fasts stood a slow-moving vigil, these queues ending at great copper cauldrons, where ladled into their bowls and cups by silent, oxen cooks were forcemeat puddings boiled in broth. Those who had not cut seats for themselves from the cypresses, or claimed for themselves various stones and logs scattered about the clearing, sat dutifully, attentively, in the damp grass. Half-dressed were the five hundred, some without their doublets, others without cravats or hats (though they doffed their hats who did wear them, for the name of God was already present and spoken-for at this assemblage). A mild breeze kicked up the regiment's flags¹, rippled against their oilcloth tents.

As it happens, Szaalm had with great strategy and choosiness selected this place for the laying of camp. Though the battle was already won, the elves already ousted like so many vermin—though Ariana's wine-and-milk standard already billowed high from the ramparts, and the city was, by all accounts, now safe for its new inhabitants to enter—by his estimation another war still ravaged this place; a war not won with shot and steel. 'Twas the war fought by the bilberries, pushing hard to burgeon forth their tender flowers, small and pale and bell-like. 'Twas the war of the foxgloves, their fiery-purple blossoms stealing sunlight at the clearing's every edge. 'Twas a war of sparrows pecking at seed and unripe berry, of warblers combing the grass for caterpillars. Of rustling leaf and babbling water. 'Twas the war, in all, of every heart and every spirit against fear, against remorse, against pity for the enemy, against dwelling on the dead; indeed, against all pause and falter. The war of all life's little beauties over the unsightly desolation of battle. Less than a mile away stood the shattered ruins of Rodelkog and yet no man would know it hadn't he climbed the battlements himself, hoisted the flags himself, himself cut down the scrambling defenders and pried the gates. Not in a place like this, alight with the song of birds and breeze and petals.

Held he in his right hand his breakfast half-supped, the colonel; in his left (closer, as it is, to the heart), his copy of The Inſurgente's Liturgie, which he held high aloft (for he had long ago memorized its contents, its worn pages serving better as symbol now than guide). And so, breakfast's prayer already issued, and the day's first song as well, the catechism continued thusly:

"I, flaming Life of the divine substance, flare up above the beauty of the plains," called he.

Answered those among the five hundred who knew the words, whether by heart or recitation: I shine in the water and blaze in the sun, the moon, and stars.

"And with an airy wind, as if by an invisible Life, I arouse all things to splendor."

And so I, the fiery power, lie hidden in these things.

"And they themselves burn by me, as the breath unceasingly moves the man, like windy flames in a fire."

I am life.

"Whole and entire, all that is living is rooted in me."

I am life.

"For reason is the root, and in it blossoms the resounding Word."

Amen.

Six hundred and fifty voices. He had known so well the admixture, the texture to their harmonies, before the battle had stolen away with a hundred from his choir. Then, of course, about one lad in three actually knew how to read; the other two murmuring along in mimicry of the first until they learned the words through rote alone. So many men he'd learned to recognize just through their birdsong. An eight-fingered, barrel-chested baker who crooned like a milking cow; a repented thief turned butcher, a twiggy little creature with a brittle, reedy tune. A drummer boy, just turned ten-and-seven, with a head of hair like goldcloth and a voice like an angel's clarion. Aye, just a fortnight ago he'd known all the brightest, boldest voices, could pick them out from the choir like eggs from a low-hanging nest. Now Szaalm strained and pored over the sound and still he wasn't so sure. The texture had changed. Six hundred were too many names to remember but he knew every face and which faces laid nose-down in the muck now, which faces would he not see again around camp?

But in the congregation's front rows, still those drummer boys sat in a circle, scratching the bellies of the hunting dogs. Two, three, five men still huddled all around each copy of the Liturgie, stumbling over the words as its more learnèd owner read along, guiding their eyes with the slide of his fingertip across the newsprint page. Life commenced and continued, even for soldiers, there when the thick was thickest.

He lowered the Liturgie, stowed it, for the time, in the crown of his hat, upturned upon a table cut from the saplings of this place. "Amen," he concluded fondly. And just as he raised again his hand to strike up the next song, a noise. Footsteps. At first Szaalm paid them no mind—he assumed it a local poacher skulking for roe deer, or a goodwife collecting potables from the stream—if, of course, it was not a man of the regiment, returning from making his morning water behind a tree—but—along with the footsteps, unmistakable was the sound of steel slipping over steel; the shifting and clinking of armor. He turned, and standing there was a soldier of the 1st: a grenadier of Ariana's honorguard. The man had left his halberd elsewhere, but the tabard and the hanger and the morion left little to the imagination. And how he glowered. Not curiously, not (in truth) as a matter of any sentiment at all, but expectantly all the same. Szaalm knew at once who he was here to collect.

Went he just abreast of the nearest chaplain, a Mittelman by the name of Chlodowig; grasped him by his black-caped shoulder, and charged him with the ceremony through to its natural conclusion. He scooped up his capotain, and returned to his tent. After all—on that fine, mild morning, with only the men for his company, he was hardly dressed to stand in the presence of royalty.


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