My post isn't quite done. I decided to start it off in... a coffee house. Because it's starting in a coffee house, I had to go into detail about the coffee, the hookah, and the character (a Prince) being highlighted in the scene, and then I'm transitioning it into something more directly dealing with politics.
Expect it to be late tonight. I should have gone for a less narrative angle.
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I'll be posting in the thread later tonight, though I'm busy right now (playing a game).
While it may not be entirely relevant to the roleplay itself, I like talking about history, so I'd like to continue this conversation with Senior Herp.
I'd like to go ahead and note that I was lumping the sword and plate armor together when dealing with weight, mostly because a footsoldier in plate armor with a metal shield and longsword is such a prevalent fantasy trope. The reality of it is that plate armor is heavy, and while it doesn't limit your mobility as much as one would think, running around on foot with it wears you out quickly. You're more likely to see such armor used by cavalry than by footsoldiers; thus why the knight is so often associated with plate armor.
Chainmail could be heavy, for sure. Note that a lot of plate armor was worn in conjunction with other protective gear though, from padded cloth to chainmail. That makes the total weight even heavier.
And yes, ventilation and breathing and heat are all huge problems when we're talking about armor like this. Other armors had this problem as well, but the point remains. Plate armor is just not something you often found worn by footsoldiers. It did happen, but... Still.
Also, firearms for the most part brought an end to plate armor. This isn't to say that the advent of firearms immediately spelled the end of all armor, as you can see such historical troops as the Polish Hussar wearing metal armor well into the development of firearms; but you really shouldn't be standing in front of a guy with a rifle and expect your armor to get you away from the scene unscathed.
I'd need to go back and research this to confirm, but I'm pretty sure this was the case at least during the beginning of the Medieval Era. The fact of the matter is a LOT of soldiers in any given battle would run away after a solid clash, and most of those would be non-professional soldiers. I'll go and do some research on this to confirm.
Sort of.
This is taken from a higher level U.S. Military History class I took a couple years ago, so bear with me if I forget a couple details. I'm trying to remember the name of the battle I'm going to bring up as an example soon, but I can't seem to. It was, however, a famous battle.
The prevalent method of warfare at the time was, well, line warfare. You'd have lines of guys with guns shooting at each other. This is the basis on which both the British and American military was based upon, more so the Continental Army than the militia, and understanding that is key. The Continental Army was trained for this sort of warfare. The militia was trained a little, but essentially they acted as a mixture between that and a mob or, as you said, as guerrilla infantry.
Do note, however, that the militia actually were not exemplary troops at all. They didn't whoop the British, and indeed ran away a lot. We really didn't start performing all that well as an army until about the time we got some training from a certain German drill instructor you may know as Friedrich Wilhelm Von Steuben. Many of the policies in his "blue book" are, last I recall, still core tenets in U.S. military policy. (Interestingly, "don't ask; don't tell" was one of them. He was forced out of his homeland for having possible homosexual affairs with a German prince.)
Anyway, one of the notable problems the U.S. militia had, a problem that a lot of non-professional armies in general had, is they would run as soon as the enemy charged. That's pretty much fact. If the British put on their bayonets and charged, the militia would scatter to the wind. This behavior was actually depended on in one battle by American generals that they planned the battle with a considerable portion of the tactics based on the fact that their militia would run.
Here's how it went: the militia were standing in front, firing at the enemy. The British charged them, and predictably the militia ran away in the opposite direction of the British. The trouble is a river was blocking their escape... so the militia were forced by the obstacle that was a big honking river to turn around and fight. Then, the Continental Army came in and surrounded the British by the flanks, and that's how we Americans won that battle. Again, I forget the name of the battle, but it was important enough of one that we spent a good 10-15 minutes discussing this in class and talking about exactly why the battle was planned the way it was.
I need to go and research plate armor in this general time period still, since I have a bit of a gap in knowledge at the time when firearms haven't quite forced the swordsman and the archer and the crossbowman to disappear.
While it may not be entirely relevant to the roleplay itself, I like talking about history, so I'd like to continue this conversation with Senior Herp.
If I'm not being uncouth by butting into this line, that's not entirely true in case of our period to my knowledge, or at least were it not for the unusual circumstance of complete subcontinental balkanization causing two decades of chaos. It is around this time of serpentine gunpowder that we'd start seeing munitions-class armor start getting churned out by guild workshop. And for that matter, neither is a sword especially heavy, with the heavier end of the zweihander class reaching seven pounds at most; the issue of fatigue comes from extended combat action in less heavy and more suffocating armor, not that it wasn't heavy, but the primary source was lacking ventilation compounding extended actions. Chain-draped heavy quilt gets VERY hot, and chain is often rather heavier than homogenized plate.
I'd like to go ahead and note that I was lumping the sword and plate armor together when dealing with weight, mostly because a footsoldier in plate armor with a metal shield and longsword is such a prevalent fantasy trope. The reality of it is that plate armor is heavy, and while it doesn't limit your mobility as much as one would think, running around on foot with it wears you out quickly. You're more likely to see such armor used by cavalry than by footsoldiers; thus why the knight is so often associated with plate armor.
Chainmail could be heavy, for sure. Note that a lot of plate armor was worn in conjunction with other protective gear though, from padded cloth to chainmail. That makes the total weight even heavier.
And yes, ventilation and breathing and heat are all huge problems when we're talking about armor like this. Other armors had this problem as well, but the point remains. Plate armor is just not something you often found worn by footsoldiers. It did happen, but... Still.
Also, firearms for the most part brought an end to plate armor. This isn't to say that the advent of firearms immediately spelled the end of all armor, as you can see such historical troops as the Polish Hussar wearing metal armor well into the development of firearms; but you really shouldn't be standing in front of a guy with a rifle and expect your armor to get you away from the scene unscathed.
It is to my understanding that this is not entirely true either. Besides gentle-blooded or knighted house guards, there were also mercenaries in the employ of lords as said guard. This in addition to further mercenaries bought for a campaign, and in addition to whatever the crown would commission. This in addition to institutions of martial familiarity like those for the English longbow meant that the core of an army was to consist of professional troops, and the core would be quite a large portion, of mercenaries and men-at-arms (knightly or otherwise.) If a belligerent was using peasant conscripts from the field, in the field, it was likely a sign they were losing already to draw so recklessly from the harvest. Large professional armies they were not, but neither were they small, with support in the form of some number semiprofessional troops drawn from the commoner.
I'd need to go back and research this to confirm, but I'm pretty sure this was the case at least during the beginning of the Medieval Era. The fact of the matter is a LOT of soldiers in any given battle would run away after a solid clash, and most of those would be non-professional soldiers. I'll go and do some research on this to confirm.
Wouldn't this be more that the militias were typically guerrilla fighters in the first place? My understanding is very basic, but they were not meant nor expected to hold a line against the British without a dugout, they were to harry the enemy long enough for responsive action, hold fortification, or else were bushwhackers killing in the woods and dying in the woods. Dying less than British line infantry, though.
Sort of.
This is taken from a higher level U.S. Military History class I took a couple years ago, so bear with me if I forget a couple details. I'm trying to remember the name of the battle I'm going to bring up as an example soon, but I can't seem to. It was, however, a famous battle.
The prevalent method of warfare at the time was, well, line warfare. You'd have lines of guys with guns shooting at each other. This is the basis on which both the British and American military was based upon, more so the Continental Army than the militia, and understanding that is key. The Continental Army was trained for this sort of warfare. The militia was trained a little, but essentially they acted as a mixture between that and a mob or, as you said, as guerrilla infantry.
Do note, however, that the militia actually were not exemplary troops at all. They didn't whoop the British, and indeed ran away a lot. We really didn't start performing all that well as an army until about the time we got some training from a certain German drill instructor you may know as Friedrich Wilhelm Von Steuben. Many of the policies in his "blue book" are, last I recall, still core tenets in U.S. military policy. (Interestingly, "don't ask; don't tell" was one of them. He was forced out of his homeland for having possible homosexual affairs with a German prince.)
Anyway, one of the notable problems the U.S. militia had, a problem that a lot of non-professional armies in general had, is they would run as soon as the enemy charged. That's pretty much fact. If the British put on their bayonets and charged, the militia would scatter to the wind. This behavior was actually depended on in one battle by American generals that they planned the battle with a considerable portion of the tactics based on the fact that their militia would run.
Here's how it went: the militia were standing in front, firing at the enemy. The British charged them, and predictably the militia ran away in the opposite direction of the British. The trouble is a river was blocking their escape... so the militia were forced by the obstacle that was a big honking river to turn around and fight. Then, the Continental Army came in and surrounded the British by the flanks, and that's how we Americans won that battle. Again, I forget the name of the battle, but it was important enough of one that we spent a good 10-15 minutes discussing this in class and talking about exactly why the battle was planned the way it was.
I need to go and research plate armor in this general time period still, since I have a bit of a gap in knowledge at the time when firearms haven't quite forced the swordsman and the archer and the crossbowman to disappear.
Eternal_Flame said
thanks for the feedback, i knew that i'm always bad at grammar,i wonder is warcraft universe is counted as medieval, excluding magic and stuff though...
Pseudo-medieval. Originally, it wasn't too far from the Renaissance era, what with its cannons and seemingly Leonardo da Vinci inspired flying machines, but it's quickly become a mish-mash of typical Medieval Fantasy and Steampunk and... various other sources of inspiration. It has steam tanks, laser beams, space ships... magic nukes... Lovecraftian-inspired monstrosities... yeah. The original Warcraft series was very medieval / renaissance, but WoW is a mish-mash of EVERYTHING.
Eternal_Flame said
haha, im no such people, i wonder, is my RP good enough for you guys?because, for real, i have never write so much in my life,
The best way to improve your writing abilities is to keep writing. Emulate others, draw upon what you like from their techniques, and you'll improve over time, likely developing your own style. Just keep writing and you'll be fine.
The one thing I'd watch for is your grammar and such. Also, always keep in mind what the limitations of the era are. Battlefield communications in the days of yore, especially the medieval era, were pretty awful; you didn't have radios, and you couldn't just yell across the battlefield to a subordinate. Thus, most orders were short and simple, and the tactics you use walking into a battle are usually going to be pretty straightforward. (I.E.: a general may tell his officers to "charge the enemy at the signal" or "move to their flank and attack" and leave the rest to their discretion, because you can't predict everything the enemy will do.)
In an upcoming battle Erimir will be in, I'll be trying to give a good idea of what sort of chaos the medieval battlefield may have had.
The way I run as a mostly peaceful nation:
I have a small pool of professional soldiers. Before the increase in the musketeers, they totaled 1,000 troops; now they total 1,250, and some may die soon. Most of the army comes in the form of armed militia.
This is reflective of feudal times. You didn't see armies of men wearing full plate and carrying nice metal swords and shields. For one, that's heavy. Also, it's really expensive to field an army so well-equipped. Instead, you'd have a pool of professional soldiers, such as, yes, a house guard, that really did make a living out of warfare. Knights and huscarls are prime examples of such men. However, large professional armies didn't really become a "thing" until much later; a local lord would just gather up a bunch of peasants from his fields, equip them with weapons, and march them off to war. (Consequently, you usually saw a lot of people running away and deserting their armies in battle. This sort of behavior continued well into the 1700's. The Revolutionary War in the U.S.A. is riddled with examples of militia running away as soon as the enemy closes in on them.)
Making sure your armies are well fed and such is important. Most casualties in war have historically been from disease and injuries not being treated properly, so keep that in mind. A healthy, well-fed soldier is less likely to succumb to disease than a malnourished one.
I have a small pool of professional soldiers. Before the increase in the musketeers, they totaled 1,000 troops; now they total 1,250, and some may die soon. Most of the army comes in the form of armed militia.
This is reflective of feudal times. You didn't see armies of men wearing full plate and carrying nice metal swords and shields. For one, that's heavy. Also, it's really expensive to field an army so well-equipped. Instead, you'd have a pool of professional soldiers, such as, yes, a house guard, that really did make a living out of warfare. Knights and huscarls are prime examples of such men. However, large professional armies didn't really become a "thing" until much later; a local lord would just gather up a bunch of peasants from his fields, equip them with weapons, and march them off to war. (Consequently, you usually saw a lot of people running away and deserting their armies in battle. This sort of behavior continued well into the 1700's. The Revolutionary War in the U.S.A. is riddled with examples of militia running away as soon as the enemy closes in on them.)
Making sure your armies are well fed and such is important. Most casualties in war have historically been from disease and injuries not being treated properly, so keep that in mind. A healthy, well-fed soldier is less likely to succumb to disease than a malnourished one.
Hounder, check your PM box.
I half-finished a post. It's saved to my computer. Expect a finished one either tonight or tomorrow morning when I wake up. I have to run a D&D game tonight.
The Republic of Erimir
The Letter
It 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:
A lump formed in Beryl's throat. She paled. You poor king... Gods, your poor kingdom... She continued reading.
"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.
A Bargain Struck
The 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 Swords
The 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.
It 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.
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.
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
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
The 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."
The 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.
I'll make a post tomorrow, I think. I have to finish up a couple posts for two other threads tonight. The opening post will mostly be a nation introduction and the sending of emissaries... or the receiving of them, if anyone negotiates with Qalimeq first.
HounderHowl said
Meeky, your islands do look mighty tasty. I may or may not take a chunk or at least try too.
Islands? I don't have islands. I'm the blue spot in the middle of the map.
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