The Republic of Erimir
Current Leader/Government: Grand Sheriff Beryl Moss (Elective Republic)
Settlements Owned: 3
Provinces Owned: 1
Population: 180,000
Standing Army: - <Erimir Infantry>/<750>/<Stationed at Shireguard><Morale 100%>
- <Republic Musketeers>/<500>/<Stationed at Shireguard>/<Morale 100%>
- <Provincial Militia>/<2000>/<Stationed at Shireguard; also stationed in Erimir and patrolling the countryside>/<80%>
Lumber
Exports: Cattle, Gunpowder
Wealth: Average
Alliances:Trade Pacts: Kingdom of Asax, Kingdom of Belmorn, Kingdom of Scharweilt
Cease Fires:
The LetterIt was another idyllic morning outside the burrow. Beryl was showing her five year old daughter the basics of stone throwing at a pond near their home. The air was crisp, the sun was high, and the wind just busy enough to cool the sweat on the pair's faces.
"The trick is in the wrist," Beryl explained to Beowyn, pulling her arm back. "Watch what I do with mine." The mother took a deep breath, focused... and when she threw the stone, it bounced no less than nine times across the water before hitting the surface with a 'plop!' and sinking below. It was not Beryl's best throw, but it was still a good one.
Beowyn was simply mystified. Rather than simply gape, though, Beryl's daughter immediately tried to imitate her. "I'll do it
better," she said matter-of-factly, becoming very competitive very quickly.
That's my girl, thought Beryl to herself, grinning as she looked on.
You take after your mum, you do.Beowyn tossed the stone at the pond, and... it sank. The little girl frowned, picked up another stone, and tossed this as well, more carefully... and it also just sank. Frustrated, she picked up a third stone, and this time simply hurled it down at the water angrily.
"Whoa, whoa!" Beryl cried, coming on forward to rest a hand on Beow's shoulder. "Careful, little bird. You'll make the pond flood if you keep throwing the stones like
that. You've got a strong arm, you know."
Beowyn harrumphed.
"Really," said Beryl, "you do. You're a strong little girl, and in a couple years I can start showing you how to use a sword.
But," she said in a warning tone, "you need to show me first that you can direct your anger properly. If you can't throw stones without being angry, you can't swing a sword without hurting yourself."
"Ma!" whined her child. "I can't do it! I can't throw rocks! They don't bounce!"
"They'll bounce if you keep practicing," answered Beryl, reaching down to pick up a stone for her. "Here. Let me help you with your arms. Remember, you should stand like
this..."
An hour later, Beryl's hard work with her child bore some fruition. She was able to reliably bounce the stone across the water once, and even made it bounce twice a couple times. They were having a break over a picnic when they heard hooves clopping against the cobblestone road. When Beryl turned, she saw a most interesting sight: an elvish rider coming as quickly as he could to the house, looking as if he'd been riding all day without rest. He carried a small satchel with him.
"Who's that, ma?" asked Beowyn, staring at the elf. "He's pretty."
Beryl snorted at that. "That would be an elf, little dove," Beryl said, reaching down and lightly grabbing her daughter's hand. "And yes, he's pretty. At least he has pretty hair, for sure. Come, let's go see what he wants." Together, the halfling and her daughter walked up the hillside to the front of the burrow, where the elven rider stopped and dismounted in all haste.
"An urgent letter from His Majesty, King Dryadson," the elf said, removing a letter from the satchel. "He said your eyes and yours alone were meant to read this. Use the code."
The code? That brought a look of worry to Beryl's face. The letter was encoded, then. In the heydays of the Bohaddon Empire, different codes were used by government officials to mask their messages and their names. This particular code was used by several western provinces in the Empire's heartland, including Belmorn and Erimir. Only a select few knew the code, and Beryl Moss, as High Sheriff of Erimir, was one of them.
"Thank you," she said, starting toward her door. "And please, come in. Make yourself at home. You look tired, and don't try to convince me that you're not. Beowyn, why don't you show him around the house and ask Miss Fenfoot to cook something for our guest."
"Yes, mama." Beowyn started on in, casting a glance back at the elf and motioning him in before he could argue. Beryl smiled and followed them in, taking a right upon entry and following the curving hall to her study.
Beryl's study was a rather plain place save for pictures of her daughter, her sister, and her dead husband. She had her books, several maps, a few documents concerning old Erimir law and so forth... Right now, though, all that mattered was the slip of paper hidden underneath the base of a drawer in her desk, which she removed and set on the table before her. Setting her reading lenses on her nose, she then took a small knife from her pocket and carefully broke the green wax seal on the letter. She carefully removed the letter from its package, then began to read, translating as she went:
My Dear Grand Sheriff,
Four heads were delivered to my today. Four Elven heads. Three of them were much cherished friends, who have served with me throughout the years with great passion for peace and diplomacy. The fourth, was my only son, Thendel.
A lump formed in Beryl's throat. She paled.
You poor king... Gods, your poor kingdom
... She continued reading.
None know he has been slain, and none must know, not yet. My people are a logical race, but the death of a Prince would poison the minds of my warriors with rage, and rage has no place on a field of battle.
I march not for vengeance, but for what is right. My murdered son is punishment for my foolishness. Too long have I leaned towards peace, and too long have I hoped to change the minds of savage creatures. The Orc slavers have inflicted a single tear upon me for their efforts, but a million tears upon my people for those they have wrongly taken. It ends now.
My host heads for the point in which all three borders meet. Assemble with me there, if you wish, and together we will bring this... evil to an end. At my command are three thousand Elves, experts in bow and spear, but we bring little armour- Belmorn could ill-afford to equip such a host so quickly. The Orcs have around a thousand men stationed twenty miles inland from our meeting point. Beyond them, there is a further two thousand, camped outside a place known as Castle Bloodrend. Bloodrend is the capital, if you can call it that, of this land.
I intend to strike hard and fast, using the dense woodlands to my advantage. Their soldiers are well equipped and battle hardened, but if I hit them fast and without warning, they will break. However, I need your commitment to ensure I have the numbers to prevail in this campaign. I will not risk another Elven head without a reasonable chance of success, and without your kind on our left flank, success is slim.
I understand if you do not wish to commit to war, for it is an ugly business. But for the good of those enslaved in a life worse than death, my conscience can no longer stand idle. For my son, my conscience can no longer stand idle. He vied for peace, and received death. I vie for war, and I too will receive death, but not mine, no, I will receive the deaths of my enemies.
King Marhorn Dryadson I, King of the Elves of Belmorn.
"Ma?" came Beowyn's voice. "Miss Fenfoot wants to know if you'd like some ham. She's serving it with taters."
Beryl did not speak. She only grabbed her daughter and held her close, resting her head against the top of Beowyn's.
"Mama? Are you alright?" There was real concern in her daughter's voice.
"Yes, dear. I just want you to know that I love you very much." Beryl cleared her throat, then pulled away. "Now, tell Miss Fenfoot that... That, yes, that would be great. Thank you, dove."
When little Beow was gone, Beryl took a sheet of parchment and wrote her own letter to King Dryadson. At first, she tried writing formally, as she knew she should... But she was writing to a man who had just lost his son. He deserved a little honesty, damn it. She wrote from her heart.
Honorable King Dryadson,
I do not know what it is like to lose a son, but I do know how much my own child means to me. I can only imagine what you must feel now, and I will ensure your son is not forgotten. The Senate will hear a call to arms this day and make their votes.
Long ago, before my grandmother's grandmother was born, the Bohaddon Empire was in dire straits. Emperor Varynn dealt with internal wars between his vassals, and to the east saw orcs raiding outlying villages, slaughtering the young and the elderly and enslaving the rest. He called on those still loyal to him to help him. The halflings of Erimir answered, for securing peace and protecting the innocent is a cause worth fighting for.
Your cause is such a cause. You call on us to lend our arms to the fight, and so we shall. It was Erimir that asked you consider the matter of Elslen's enslaved peoples, and so Erimir must march. The slaves of Elslen deserve emancipation, and while we of the Shires may not be great heroes or mighty warriors, we have our slings, our swords, our pitchforks, and our muskets. The Republic will muster whoever is willing and march to Shireguard where we will meet your army. I cannot promise that we will be able to stand up to orcs in a fair fight, but I will come with an army, and together we can defeat the enemy with tactics and cunning.
I mourn for your loss, King Dryadson. We of Erimir ask only that you temper your sorrow with that wish for peace. We will speak with these orcs with our steel, and through such means may force them to the table of diplomacy.
I will pray tonight for you, your son, and all the soldiers that serve alongside us. Gods willing, this battle will be brief, and justice will be served. I swear to you, your son's toils were not in vain. We will end slavery in this region.
High Sheriff Beryl Moss of the Republic of Erimir
A Bargain StruckThe ship was able to dock without incident, thank the Gods. Armand had been worried he would have to fight the islanders, but that did not come to pass. As it was, he found himself feeling a fair dose of pity.
The shore had been an interesting sight if only for the docks of cement and stone and the large gate that led into the kingdom, but the Scharweilt forest, while beautiful and filled with chirping birds, made him feel a pang of guilt. Wild grapes grew in the woods, though Armand was told there were little this year, and that famine was the norm. He could see orchards lining either side of the road, grand in size and scale, but they were faring poorly this season. There were ponds scattered throughout the isle, and it would have been idyllic if not for the lean, hungry humans Armand kept seeing. They were not on the verge of death, but compared to the hale and hearty people of Erimir...
There wasn't much talk on the way to the castle. Armand was walking with an escort of Scharweiltien guards and a state official. The official would explain some bit of history, and Armand would show some casual interest, but they mostly walked in silence. Armand suspected the Scharweiltiens felt a trade deal with Erimir was important. Halfling produce was famous throughout the realms. Chances were they'd be more interested in that than in the halflings' gunpowder given the famine.
Eventually, they came to the castle, a respectable place to be sure. Armand was led inside with his papers. He'd made sure to button his vest before making landfall, the better to be presentable. As far as he knew, he was to meet with King Laurence himself.
So it was. Armand stood in the middle of a great hall. Seated on the throne before him was a regally dressed man, King Laurence no doubt, flanked by knights clad in the finest armor. Their presence made the ruler seem all the more stately. No matter, thought Armand. I have parlayed with dukes before. What is a king but a duke that now rules himself?
"Behold His Majesty King Laurence," bellowed a proud man in a fetching blue cap, "ruler of the Island of Scharweilt."
The old halfling bowed (but did not kneel) to the king respectfully, folding one arm behind his back and the other before his stomach. "I thank you for granting me this audience, gracious king. May you have a long life filled with good cheer."
"Mmm." King Laurence rose to his feet, gesturing at the halfling. "And I pray your people live well, little one. Tell me, how fares the Republic these days?"
"We live, though we do not thrive; but the days are long and the nights are short, so there is much to be thankful for." The silver-haired halfling stood upright as well, opening the scroll he held. It was time to get to the point. "Your Majesty, the people of Erimir are eager to secure good relations with our neighbors, your kingdom among them. We hope we may secure a trade deal between our two nations. Your fish would be particularly--"
"I cannot trade our fish away," the king interrupted with a sigh. "My people are hungry yet, halfling. Surely you saw that on your way to the castle."
"So I did," admitted Armand, tucking the scroll back into his vest and folding his wrinkled fingers together. "I was hoping I was wrong."
"You were not. For now, I would rather maintain a supply of fish for our food stores than trade it away. But..." King Laurence paused, motioning to one of his guards. "Bring the good halfling a goblet of the aged wine." The man bowed his head and obliged his king quickly.
"You have something else to trade, Your Majesty?"
"Wine," the king answered plainly. "Scharweiltein wine is without a doubt the finest you will have, and I believe you will agree that it is worth trading for." At that point, the man returned with a goblet on a platter, offering it to old Armand. "Drink, my friend."
Armand did as he was bid, more because it would be insulting not to than for any desire to have wine. To his surprise, the wine did taste wonderful and was fairly spiced, and it had a... what was the word Jan used? It possessed a "fine bouquet." Namely, the spices and the grapes used in the wine's production mixed to make a pleasant scent.
Armand, of course, remained neutral. As any good bargainer, he knew better than to show anything more than casual interest. "Mmm. For what price would you offer this wine to us for?"
"My people could make good use of your famous livestock," answered the king. "We would be willing to trade our wine for cattle, and we are willing to start such a trade as soon as you can get a ship to us with the livestock necessary."
The halfling furrowed his brow. "We will need to discuss the exact amount to trade," he begins, "but that could be arranged. You have no interest in our supply of gunpowder, then?"
"Feeding my people comes first," King Laurence stated sharply. "Once they are fed, we can discuss the possibility of trading for Erimir gunpowder, but that time is not now. We will trade wine for your cattle, and if you agree, we will discuss the particulars of this arrangement in private."
The King leaned forward in his throne. "Is that a deal, halfling?"
Armand felt a little cheated - he was neither getting what he wanted nor selling what he did not need - but acquiesced. "It's a deal."
Plows into SwordsThe Republic of Erimir has drummed up new recruits for its army to prepare for the coming war with Elslen. The Musketeers have been doubled to a size of 500, and 1,000 new recruits have been gathered to fight in the Erimir militia. It seems as if Erimir was preparing for a war for some time, given how quickly they gathered these new recruits, and the halfling army is now gathered a Shireguard, at the border of Elslen, Erimir, and Belmorn. They are led by the High Sheriff herself. The new militia is poorly equipped, as halfling armies usually are: pitchforks, short swords, clubs and slings make up most of their weapons. A few have lumberjacks' axes.
A token force of 500 militiamen has been left to defend the city of Erimir and its outlying shires.
