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I forgot to make my Army Card. I'll be sure to make one later.
The Republic of Erimir
Tactics and Politics
“If it were up to me, we would strike in the night and fire on them as they sleep,” Tommen said forcefully. “We need to remove the threat and-”
“They’re in a fort,” interrupted the High Sheriff, brushing her brown hair away from her face. “We can’t very well sneak into a guarded fort. Fighting them in the open is our best option.” The halfling woman gripped her sword’s hilt a little more tightly, then turned to look over at King Dryadson. “What do you think?”
“My Glade Watchers could sneak into that sorry excuse for a fortification in broad daylight, but,” Dryadson paused, his face unmoving and still, “but, I would rather the Orcs see their doom, than rout them with minimal losses to their kin.”
A concerned look came briefly over Beryl’s face. Tommen knew that look - she was keeping herself from saying something, but clearly understood more about whatever made the King so uncharacteristically vengeful than Tommen did. It wasn’t like her to keep secrets from him or anyone else on the Council, so… why?
“Minimal casualties are precisely what my people want, fair King,” Beryl began slowly. “Our goal in the war is to force the orcs into peace talks, not to adorn our pitchforks with their heads.” She folded her arms over her chest. “We cannot lose sight of why we’re here, sir.”
King Dryadson sighed, and turned to look out of the flapping curtains of the pavilion's entrance. Beyond the opening, was a field of lush green, set before a stain on the landscape - Fort Bloodrend. He eyed it passively; his left eye ever so slightly spasming with untold emotional strain.
“I lost a good deal of my brothers and sisters, not a week ago, because of these wretches. My Kingdom has lost a good many more over the decades still, to the evil that these Orcs bestow on others,” Dryadson muttered, before turning back to the High Sheriff and her companions. “If it is casualties of your folk that concerns you, then worry not, my little friends. The Orcs will not reach us, not with my Glade Watchers at my back, and not with an open field like this for them to cross. Many will die, a great many yes, but Elf and Halfling kind will be unscathed.”
“It’s not just a worry for halfling blood being spilled,” Beryl continued. “It’s a worry for elf blood and orc blood. We want to break their spirit, Marhorn. If we kill them all, we will not only garner unwanted attention from our neighbors, but will begin a cycle of hatred that will not end with our generation.”
Or we could just shoot them all, and there would be no cycle, thought Tommen to himself. He didn’t say that, though. He also stopped to remember the orcs he’d fought alongside before the Empire’s collapse. She does have a point, though. They would be more useful as allies than enemies.
“How many slaves have passed through this land, I wonder,” the Elf King said, partially ignoring Beryl’s words, “how many broken bodies, forced to ply the fields, forced to entertain beastly wants. How much blood, of those who could ply and entertain no longer, is entrenched in that plain, right outside that little evil lair over yonder. I hear them, the cries of women, the curses of men, I can hear them. Much pain has taken place in Bloodrend, a pain you will not understand, High Sheriff. I am old, I have witnessed the depravity of Elslen first-hand and from afar. Diplomacy has failed at almost every level with these monsters, and they will not reason. They must be destroyed, the entire land must be purged. Slavers or not, I hold the Orcs here responsible for a million untold tragedies.”
“Killing an orc for every lost life won’t bring anyone back,” Beryl interjected, her tone softening a little. “It will not bring back our brothers, sisters, lovers… not our children.” She looked away, pacing slowly around the table. “Don’t think I don’t understand what the slavers have done. I travelled most of the continent before I became High Sheriff, and I’ve seen good friends die or get dragged away in chains by beastmen. I know what is at stake.” The small woman turned back toward King Dryadson, her chin raised in determination. “We cannot let the slavers get away with what they’ve done, but remember that the orcs have families, too, and that there are nations watching what we do very closely. If we kill many orcs for the crimes of a few, are we any better than they are?”
King Dryadson shook his head, his lips trembling in a rage he could no longer contain. Beryl’s words seemed to have unnerved him, a very rare feat indeed, given the Elf King’s century-old reserve. For a second, it seemed he was prepared to draw the sword of his fathers, and strike at the little woman.
“Go to them, little Halfling!” He hissed, spittle visibly flying from between his teeth. “Offer them terms, offer them any terms you want. If they accept, I will oblige myself to accept them also. You will see, yes, you will see the reason that I, Marhorn Dryadson, King of the Green Host, King of Belmorn and son of the Great Meria Dryadson, have come to this resolve.”
With that, King Dryadson stormed from the pavillion with his hand gripped around the ornate handle of his ancestral sword.
“Whatever you did to upset him was a very bad idea,” Tommen noted casually. “I would not be surprised if we end up fighting elves with your attitude.” He removed his helmet, running his hand through his sweaty hair.
“Some truths have to be told, no matter how harsh they are,” Beryl said sadly. “He has much reason to want to fight the orcs. I only hope that reason doesn’t blind him.”
“Or kill you,” Tommen added in an ever-so-polite tone. Hopefully, Beryl would get the point.
Parlay
The gentle slope of the verdant plains were, perhaps, too good for the brutes that called them home. The area about the fort was no paradise, but it was beautiful enough and well-tilled by the hands of slaves. The slaves themselves were all inside Fort Bloodrend now, probably, probably locked in cells to keep them from escaping during the battle so clearly on the horizon. On the spiked wooden walls of the fort were orcs with bows and javelins. Across from the fort were grim-faced elvish archers and halflings with slings and guns ready to launch their payload. In the middle of these two eager forces was a company no larger than twenty strong: Beryl and her halfling entourage holding high the banner of Erimir with a white flag of peace, and the Countess of Meria’s Rest representing elvish interests.
Most people in that band were watching the orcish weapons with lumps in their throats.
Anya Meadowsong’s heart beat calmly. Even arrayed against such possible doom, she was confident and indifferent. There were at least a hundred Glade Watchers within longbow range of Bloodrend’s parapets, and any attempt to harm her or her Halfling companions would be repaid in kind. Even if her chest was pierced by the crude and unforgiving javelin of an Orc, death was not something she feared. What she feared, was something these Orcs thrived on: to be enslaved and denied a life of relative freedom.
The Countess looked down at Beryl, who though bearing up under the strain of walking head first into a possible slaughter, was evidently unsettled.
“Look them in the eyes at all times, my lady, especially when talking. The Orcs respect strength, and little else; this is partly why they prosper in slavery. To them, a surrendered or submissive adversary is worse than scum, who deserve a life in servitude rather than a quick death,” she whispered, loud enough for only Beryl to hear.
“I don’t suppose they don’t look down on you if you need a stool to look them in the eyes?” The halfling managed a small smirk, clearly trying to make light of the situation.
Anya smiled at the small woman; impressed with her apparent stalwart courage. “We will be fine, my kin will not allow us to come to harm,” she half-lied, “just make a show of strength, remind them that despite your modest height, you command their fate today, and hopefully that’ll be the business concluded.”
As the party approached the Orcs, who were busily assembling into a rough battle line before the very gates or Fort Bloodrend, a black feathered arrow whizzed through the air and thumped into the moist soil in in front of Anya. She did not flinch, but stopped, and held up a hand to indicate that the rest of the group should hold.
Dressed in her Glade Watcher’s garb, Anya was a formidable figure of green cloth and brown leather. Thick blonde hair climbed its way down her front and back from the heavy hood that gave her some protection from both the rain and an axe-stroke. Her almost paper-white face was obscured from the nose down by a black scarf; an item of clothing usually employed to prevent her enemies from becoming too familiar with her appearance. It was not fitting for a Countess of Belmorn to be the mark of a Jourian or Elslen raiding party.
The Orc battle line parted down the center, and mounted upon iron-clad steeds rode three riders. They were dressed in heavy chainmail, lapped with plate. The lead rider, an Orc that appeared to be an easy eight feet in height, halted as he passed the last rank of his soldiers. To Anya, the thirty feet gap between herself and the Orc chieftains seemed to be terribly small.
After spending long and awkward seconds eyeing the Halfling company, the lead Orc burst into a fit of maniacal laughter. His voice was fierce, and full of iron. Some of the Halflings stirred uneasily, but others did their best to keep up a front of courage.
“Does the Elf King send children to arrest me?” he chuckled, “or perhaps he brings me a peace offering?”
“I think letting you live is a fine enough peace offering,” the halfling snapped back, sitting up high on her pony. The tone was unlike her - a transformation, to say the least. “Unless you’ve forgotten who routed whom, I suggest we drop the niceties and start making deals.”
“Bah, routed!?” The Orc replied, snickering. The riders that flanked him added their amusement. “You fight like cowards. You let those high ‘n mighty Elves take the beating, and then stabbed at our feet. If you fought like any respectable foe at all, you’d at least of left those little guns of yo-”
At that, the High Sheriff started dismounting, hitting the ground with a soft ‘thud.’ Her chainmail shifted softly. “Either get down to business,” she snapped, drawing her sword and pointing it at him, “or you can get off your animal and we can discuss what it means to be a ‘respectable foe’ on foot.”
Anya reached into her cloak, and placed her delicate fingers around the grip of a hidden blade. Her heart was calm no longer, and she was half certain the Halfling had tipped things towards violence.
The Orc however, did not laugh, nor did he speak. With a grunt, he jumped down from his mount in one fluid movement. The ground beneath him shuddered slightly under his bulking weight. With two thick hands of discolored flesh he removed his iron skull cap, revealing a face of mangled teeth and scars. It seemed evident that life had not been entirely gentle with the Chieftain.
“I am High Chieftain Brakkor Fellblade, Lord of all of Elslen. Former advisor to our late majesty, Emperor Almon IX. What,” he paused, regarding the Halfling with obvious irritation, “are you terms?”
Carefully, the halfling woman sheathed her shortsword. “First, Elslen must release its slaves and end the practice of slavery,” she began. “Second, the nation must agree not to raid the nearby nations of Erimir and Belmorn. Thirdly, it must make its iron available to Erimir and Belmorn for at least one season.” Pausing, the halfling glanced over at Anya. “Belmorn has terms of its own to present.”
At the mention of Belmorn’s terms, Anya stepped forwards and pulled aside her scarf. Brakkor regarded her closely, and then smirked.
“The Elf bitch has the floor,” he cackled.
Anya ignored the slight. “My Lord King Marhorn Dryadson I, demands you declare fealty to him. In retur-”
“Kneel before the Elven King of Belmorn?” interrupted Brakkor, with a hiss. “I’d rather die.”
“My Lord assures me that this can be arranged, High Chieftain,” fired Anya’s retort.
“Your fortifications are ill-prepared to deal with either an assault or a prolonged siege,” Beryl added to the talk. “Our terms are negotiable, but if we cannot reach an agreement, there will be more blood.”
Brakkor was silenced, and he struggled for a response. It seemed he was desperately trying to not lose face in front of his warriors, whilst at the same time achieving his reign’s survival. This Anya could see from the look on his ruined features, and she pressed the advantage.
“The Halfling bitch speaks much truth, High Chieftain,” Anya said with a mocking smirk. “The war is over, my King will not hesitate to decorate Hadelmere Hold with the bodies of you and your kin, of this I can assure you. Better you accept his terms now, than answer to his wrath later.”
“No slaves. Dryadson’s lapdog,” murmured Brakkor, thoughtfully. “What kind of fealty, would my Lord Dryadson command of me?”
Anya smiled. Finally things were heading for their conclusion.
“You will demobilize your standing army, save for your personal guard and forces allocated to town watches - for law and order, you understand. You will be at his beck and call, and will be expected to work towards his benefit, and the benefit of the Belmorian peoples,” said Anya, triumphantly and sure Brakkor would submit.
“Seems fair,” replied Brakkor, “and in return, what does the Elf King give me?”
“Protection for your life, and the lives of your people. Wheat so that your people never again have to face a harsh harvest. Wisdom, so that you will stray from making decisions… unhealthy towards your people, and the people of others,” she finished.
“Balls to it. You want me to send my soldiers back home, where their finances will be in ruin from the cessation of our slave trade, and in return you will feed them and keep them protected? From who? Themselves? Your King has demonstrated a lack of understanding of Elslen culture. Doing this will destroy my country, and my peoples. This I cannot do. Die if I must, I will not yield the future of my peoples without fight,” said Brakkor, with an expression of steel-clad determination.
“Then instead of yielding your future to us,” interrupted the halfling, “why not bind it with ours?”
“Explain, Halfling,” replied Brakkor curiously.
“What would you say to Elslen being assured its future independence by Erimir?” the halfling began. “Elslen shall enter into a protectorate contract with Belmorn under similar terms: you shall have an army, but only a thousand of whom may act outside your borders without the express agreement of Belmorn. You may use this force to act abroad in your interests, but you must still forsake slavery and act according to the wishes of Belmorn. Orcs will still rule Elslen, however, and you will earn your total independence after Erimir and Belmorn agree you have developed enough and no longer need slavery to exist, with a minimum time in fealty lasting four seasons.
“Additionally, Erimir will take measures to ensure the orcs of Elslen are able to change. We will be glad to purchase the iron we desire from you, and will also open our cattle market to yourselves. We are willing to hire orcish soldiers to train our troops, and I assure you Erimir will pay them as well as we would our own kin.”
The halfling woman folded her arms behind her back. “King Dryadson has given me his consent to secure a treaty with you on terms I feel are good for all parties. These are the terms I offer, and I think they are more lenient than the terms you will receive if you choose battle.”
Brakkar nodded thoughtfully. “And Dryadson will agree to all of this, you are sure?”
“He will agree,” the halfling said, “and I will see to it that his joint ruler agrees as well.”
“Good enough for me, little Miss. I accept. Bring me whatever it is I have to sign, and it is done,” he replied.
“There is one more thing,” interrupted Anya suddenly, “a matter of four Elves my Lord dispatched to hold a parley with you, three weeks ago.”
“What of them?” Asked Brakkar; a slight hint of fear edged itself into his face.
“He wants those accountable for their unlawful murder brought to him,” she said coldly.
Brakkar hesitated, tried to speak, but only a muffled grunt came from his twisted lips.
“He who judges, carries out that judgement without aid. The second law of your peoples, I believe,” she replied.
Brakkar nodded. Beside Anya, the halfling High Sheriff looked between the two of them with a grim look on her face.
“Then those responsible lay face down in the grass at Witch Green Pass. Agreed?”
At first, Brakkar did not understand Anya’s words, but then grasped them and clawed at them feveriously.
“Yes, yes, I er, Chief Aknam, it was him,” he sputtered.
Anya nodded; she had betrayed her King’s trust, and spared the life of a soulless murderer, she was sure. However, she had saved fifty thousand Orcs by doing so. Dryadson would not have been pleased to hear his son had been decapitated by none other than the highest authority in all of Elslen.
“If it were up to me, we would strike in the night and fire on them as they sleep,” Tommen said forcefully. “We need to remove the threat and-”
“They’re in a fort,” interrupted the High Sheriff, brushing her brown hair away from her face. “We can’t very well sneak into a guarded fort. Fighting them in the open is our best option.” The halfling woman gripped her sword’s hilt a little more tightly, then turned to look over at King Dryadson. “What do you think?”
“My Glade Watchers could sneak into that sorry excuse for a fortification in broad daylight, but,” Dryadson paused, his face unmoving and still, “but, I would rather the Orcs see their doom, than rout them with minimal losses to their kin.”
A concerned look came briefly over Beryl’s face. Tommen knew that look - she was keeping herself from saying something, but clearly understood more about whatever made the King so uncharacteristically vengeful than Tommen did. It wasn’t like her to keep secrets from him or anyone else on the Council, so… why?
“Minimal casualties are precisely what my people want, fair King,” Beryl began slowly. “Our goal in the war is to force the orcs into peace talks, not to adorn our pitchforks with their heads.” She folded her arms over her chest. “We cannot lose sight of why we’re here, sir.”
King Dryadson sighed, and turned to look out of the flapping curtains of the pavilion's entrance. Beyond the opening, was a field of lush green, set before a stain on the landscape - Fort Bloodrend. He eyed it passively; his left eye ever so slightly spasming with untold emotional strain.
“I lost a good deal of my brothers and sisters, not a week ago, because of these wretches. My Kingdom has lost a good many more over the decades still, to the evil that these Orcs bestow on others,” Dryadson muttered, before turning back to the High Sheriff and her companions. “If it is casualties of your folk that concerns you, then worry not, my little friends. The Orcs will not reach us, not with my Glade Watchers at my back, and not with an open field like this for them to cross. Many will die, a great many yes, but Elf and Halfling kind will be unscathed.”
“It’s not just a worry for halfling blood being spilled,” Beryl continued. “It’s a worry for elf blood and orc blood. We want to break their spirit, Marhorn. If we kill them all, we will not only garner unwanted attention from our neighbors, but will begin a cycle of hatred that will not end with our generation.”
Or we could just shoot them all, and there would be no cycle, thought Tommen to himself. He didn’t say that, though. He also stopped to remember the orcs he’d fought alongside before the Empire’s collapse. She does have a point, though. They would be more useful as allies than enemies.
“How many slaves have passed through this land, I wonder,” the Elf King said, partially ignoring Beryl’s words, “how many broken bodies, forced to ply the fields, forced to entertain beastly wants. How much blood, of those who could ply and entertain no longer, is entrenched in that plain, right outside that little evil lair over yonder. I hear them, the cries of women, the curses of men, I can hear them. Much pain has taken place in Bloodrend, a pain you will not understand, High Sheriff. I am old, I have witnessed the depravity of Elslen first-hand and from afar. Diplomacy has failed at almost every level with these monsters, and they will not reason. They must be destroyed, the entire land must be purged. Slavers or not, I hold the Orcs here responsible for a million untold tragedies.”
“Killing an orc for every lost life won’t bring anyone back,” Beryl interjected, her tone softening a little. “It will not bring back our brothers, sisters, lovers… not our children.” She looked away, pacing slowly around the table. “Don’t think I don’t understand what the slavers have done. I travelled most of the continent before I became High Sheriff, and I’ve seen good friends die or get dragged away in chains by beastmen. I know what is at stake.” The small woman turned back toward King Dryadson, her chin raised in determination. “We cannot let the slavers get away with what they’ve done, but remember that the orcs have families, too, and that there are nations watching what we do very closely. If we kill many orcs for the crimes of a few, are we any better than they are?”
King Dryadson shook his head, his lips trembling in a rage he could no longer contain. Beryl’s words seemed to have unnerved him, a very rare feat indeed, given the Elf King’s century-old reserve. For a second, it seemed he was prepared to draw the sword of his fathers, and strike at the little woman.
“Go to them, little Halfling!” He hissed, spittle visibly flying from between his teeth. “Offer them terms, offer them any terms you want. If they accept, I will oblige myself to accept them also. You will see, yes, you will see the reason that I, Marhorn Dryadson, King of the Green Host, King of Belmorn and son of the Great Meria Dryadson, have come to this resolve.”
With that, King Dryadson stormed from the pavillion with his hand gripped around the ornate handle of his ancestral sword.
“Whatever you did to upset him was a very bad idea,” Tommen noted casually. “I would not be surprised if we end up fighting elves with your attitude.” He removed his helmet, running his hand through his sweaty hair.
“Some truths have to be told, no matter how harsh they are,” Beryl said sadly. “He has much reason to want to fight the orcs. I only hope that reason doesn’t blind him.”
“Or kill you,” Tommen added in an ever-so-polite tone. Hopefully, Beryl would get the point.
The gentle slope of the verdant plains were, perhaps, too good for the brutes that called them home. The area about the fort was no paradise, but it was beautiful enough and well-tilled by the hands of slaves. The slaves themselves were all inside Fort Bloodrend now, probably, probably locked in cells to keep them from escaping during the battle so clearly on the horizon. On the spiked wooden walls of the fort were orcs with bows and javelins. Across from the fort were grim-faced elvish archers and halflings with slings and guns ready to launch their payload. In the middle of these two eager forces was a company no larger than twenty strong: Beryl and her halfling entourage holding high the banner of Erimir with a white flag of peace, and the Countess of Meria’s Rest representing elvish interests.
Most people in that band were watching the orcish weapons with lumps in their throats.
Anya Meadowsong’s heart beat calmly. Even arrayed against such possible doom, she was confident and indifferent. There were at least a hundred Glade Watchers within longbow range of Bloodrend’s parapets, and any attempt to harm her or her Halfling companions would be repaid in kind. Even if her chest was pierced by the crude and unforgiving javelin of an Orc, death was not something she feared. What she feared, was something these Orcs thrived on: to be enslaved and denied a life of relative freedom.
The Countess looked down at Beryl, who though bearing up under the strain of walking head first into a possible slaughter, was evidently unsettled.
“Look them in the eyes at all times, my lady, especially when talking. The Orcs respect strength, and little else; this is partly why they prosper in slavery. To them, a surrendered or submissive adversary is worse than scum, who deserve a life in servitude rather than a quick death,” she whispered, loud enough for only Beryl to hear.
“I don’t suppose they don’t look down on you if you need a stool to look them in the eyes?” The halfling managed a small smirk, clearly trying to make light of the situation.
Anya smiled at the small woman; impressed with her apparent stalwart courage. “We will be fine, my kin will not allow us to come to harm,” she half-lied, “just make a show of strength, remind them that despite your modest height, you command their fate today, and hopefully that’ll be the business concluded.”
As the party approached the Orcs, who were busily assembling into a rough battle line before the very gates or Fort Bloodrend, a black feathered arrow whizzed through the air and thumped into the moist soil in in front of Anya. She did not flinch, but stopped, and held up a hand to indicate that the rest of the group should hold.
Dressed in her Glade Watcher’s garb, Anya was a formidable figure of green cloth and brown leather. Thick blonde hair climbed its way down her front and back from the heavy hood that gave her some protection from both the rain and an axe-stroke. Her almost paper-white face was obscured from the nose down by a black scarf; an item of clothing usually employed to prevent her enemies from becoming too familiar with her appearance. It was not fitting for a Countess of Belmorn to be the mark of a Jourian or Elslen raiding party.
The Orc battle line parted down the center, and mounted upon iron-clad steeds rode three riders. They were dressed in heavy chainmail, lapped with plate. The lead rider, an Orc that appeared to be an easy eight feet in height, halted as he passed the last rank of his soldiers. To Anya, the thirty feet gap between herself and the Orc chieftains seemed to be terribly small.
After spending long and awkward seconds eyeing the Halfling company, the lead Orc burst into a fit of maniacal laughter. His voice was fierce, and full of iron. Some of the Halflings stirred uneasily, but others did their best to keep up a front of courage.
“Does the Elf King send children to arrest me?” he chuckled, “or perhaps he brings me a peace offering?”
“I think letting you live is a fine enough peace offering,” the halfling snapped back, sitting up high on her pony. The tone was unlike her - a transformation, to say the least. “Unless you’ve forgotten who routed whom, I suggest we drop the niceties and start making deals.”
“Bah, routed!?” The Orc replied, snickering. The riders that flanked him added their amusement. “You fight like cowards. You let those high ‘n mighty Elves take the beating, and then stabbed at our feet. If you fought like any respectable foe at all, you’d at least of left those little guns of yo-”
At that, the High Sheriff started dismounting, hitting the ground with a soft ‘thud.’ Her chainmail shifted softly. “Either get down to business,” she snapped, drawing her sword and pointing it at him, “or you can get off your animal and we can discuss what it means to be a ‘respectable foe’ on foot.”
Anya reached into her cloak, and placed her delicate fingers around the grip of a hidden blade. Her heart was calm no longer, and she was half certain the Halfling had tipped things towards violence.
The Orc however, did not laugh, nor did he speak. With a grunt, he jumped down from his mount in one fluid movement. The ground beneath him shuddered slightly under his bulking weight. With two thick hands of discolored flesh he removed his iron skull cap, revealing a face of mangled teeth and scars. It seemed evident that life had not been entirely gentle with the Chieftain.
“I am High Chieftain Brakkor Fellblade, Lord of all of Elslen. Former advisor to our late majesty, Emperor Almon IX. What,” he paused, regarding the Halfling with obvious irritation, “are you terms?”
Carefully, the halfling woman sheathed her shortsword. “First, Elslen must release its slaves and end the practice of slavery,” she began. “Second, the nation must agree not to raid the nearby nations of Erimir and Belmorn. Thirdly, it must make its iron available to Erimir and Belmorn for at least one season.” Pausing, the halfling glanced over at Anya. “Belmorn has terms of its own to present.”
At the mention of Belmorn’s terms, Anya stepped forwards and pulled aside her scarf. Brakkor regarded her closely, and then smirked.
“The Elf bitch has the floor,” he cackled.
Anya ignored the slight. “My Lord King Marhorn Dryadson I, demands you declare fealty to him. In retur-”
“Kneel before the Elven King of Belmorn?” interrupted Brakkor, with a hiss. “I’d rather die.”
“My Lord assures me that this can be arranged, High Chieftain,” fired Anya’s retort.
“Your fortifications are ill-prepared to deal with either an assault or a prolonged siege,” Beryl added to the talk. “Our terms are negotiable, but if we cannot reach an agreement, there will be more blood.”
Brakkor was silenced, and he struggled for a response. It seemed he was desperately trying to not lose face in front of his warriors, whilst at the same time achieving his reign’s survival. This Anya could see from the look on his ruined features, and she pressed the advantage.
“The Halfling bitch speaks much truth, High Chieftain,” Anya said with a mocking smirk. “The war is over, my King will not hesitate to decorate Hadelmere Hold with the bodies of you and your kin, of this I can assure you. Better you accept his terms now, than answer to his wrath later.”
“No slaves. Dryadson’s lapdog,” murmured Brakkor, thoughtfully. “What kind of fealty, would my Lord Dryadson command of me?”
Anya smiled. Finally things were heading for their conclusion.
“You will demobilize your standing army, save for your personal guard and forces allocated to town watches - for law and order, you understand. You will be at his beck and call, and will be expected to work towards his benefit, and the benefit of the Belmorian peoples,” said Anya, triumphantly and sure Brakkor would submit.
“Seems fair,” replied Brakkor, “and in return, what does the Elf King give me?”
“Protection for your life, and the lives of your people. Wheat so that your people never again have to face a harsh harvest. Wisdom, so that you will stray from making decisions… unhealthy towards your people, and the people of others,” she finished.
“Balls to it. You want me to send my soldiers back home, where their finances will be in ruin from the cessation of our slave trade, and in return you will feed them and keep them protected? From who? Themselves? Your King has demonstrated a lack of understanding of Elslen culture. Doing this will destroy my country, and my peoples. This I cannot do. Die if I must, I will not yield the future of my peoples without fight,” said Brakkor, with an expression of steel-clad determination.
“Then instead of yielding your future to us,” interrupted the halfling, “why not bind it with ours?”
“Explain, Halfling,” replied Brakkor curiously.
“What would you say to Elslen being assured its future independence by Erimir?” the halfling began. “Elslen shall enter into a protectorate contract with Belmorn under similar terms: you shall have an army, but only a thousand of whom may act outside your borders without the express agreement of Belmorn. You may use this force to act abroad in your interests, but you must still forsake slavery and act according to the wishes of Belmorn. Orcs will still rule Elslen, however, and you will earn your total independence after Erimir and Belmorn agree you have developed enough and no longer need slavery to exist, with a minimum time in fealty lasting four seasons.
“Additionally, Erimir will take measures to ensure the orcs of Elslen are able to change. We will be glad to purchase the iron we desire from you, and will also open our cattle market to yourselves. We are willing to hire orcish soldiers to train our troops, and I assure you Erimir will pay them as well as we would our own kin.”
The halfling woman folded her arms behind her back. “King Dryadson has given me his consent to secure a treaty with you on terms I feel are good for all parties. These are the terms I offer, and I think they are more lenient than the terms you will receive if you choose battle.”
Brakkar nodded thoughtfully. “And Dryadson will agree to all of this, you are sure?”
“He will agree,” the halfling said, “and I will see to it that his joint ruler agrees as well.”
“Good enough for me, little Miss. I accept. Bring me whatever it is I have to sign, and it is done,” he replied.
“There is one more thing,” interrupted Anya suddenly, “a matter of four Elves my Lord dispatched to hold a parley with you, three weeks ago.”
“What of them?” Asked Brakkar; a slight hint of fear edged itself into his face.
“He wants those accountable for their unlawful murder brought to him,” she said coldly.
Brakkar hesitated, tried to speak, but only a muffled grunt came from his twisted lips.
“He who judges, carries out that judgement without aid. The second law of your peoples, I believe,” she replied.
Brakkar nodded. Beside Anya, the halfling High Sheriff looked between the two of them with a grim look on her face.
“Then those responsible lay face down in the grass at Witch Green Pass. Agreed?”
At first, Brakkar did not understand Anya’s words, but then grasped them and clawed at them feveriously.
“Yes, yes, I er, Chief Aknam, it was him,” he sputtered.
Anya nodded; she had betrayed her King’s trust, and spared the life of a soulless murderer, she was sure. However, she had saved fifty thousand Orcs by doing so. Dryadson would not have been pleased to hear his son had been decapitated by none other than the highest authority in all of Elslen.
I think my nation will very clearly be Farmerfolk. I was tempted to choose the trade one, but... halflings. Farmers. It's natural.
Titanic said
Hey Syrian, think you can make a achnon gnome related event?
Syrian Hamster leaves in Europe, so the times he can be online are a little different. He also works for a fair bit when it's not the weekend and doesn't post until the afternoon / evening on weekdays. He'll answer when he's able.
orangebox said
I apologize for the really short posts that I came up with, pilling assignments and responses has made it hard for me to write creatively for an enjoyable read.
Hey, let me just say this: practice makes perfect. The more you write, the better you'll get. Right now, even if you're not writing on the same level, you're still contributing to the roleplay and helping everyone have fun; and, just as important, you're having fun I think. Just keep writing and you'll improve. Don't feel disheartened - and if life gets in the way, we all understand. I know I've had trouble dedicating myself to roleplays after having some curveballs thrown at me by college or by having my house flood...
The Republic of Erimir
The First Battle of Elslen
It was a perfect ambush. The plan was solid. It should have left her without any doubts, but for some reason Beryl felt uneasy. Perhaps it was just because she had not led an army before, or perhaps because she knew the militia standing in the open were ten times as afraid as she was from her hidden vantage point. There were a lot of things that could "perhaps" be the cause of her anxiety, but she knew better than to worry too much. The battle was near, and inaction would lead to disaster.
"High Sheriff," murmured her aide, an old lieutenant rubbing his bald head. "Our scouts have sighted the orcish force ahead - a mere thousand, apparently slavers of some sort. They're equipped to capture, not to kill."
"Then we have a strong numerical advantage," noted Beryl with a nod. "Inform King Dryadson, though I'm sure the elves have already spotted the orcs as well. Tell them we are in position, and we are now setting the lure. Remind Marshal Tommen that he is to use the Mossy Meadows Technique if things go poorly."
"At the double, madame." The halfling saluted sharply, then jogged off to send messengers.
Beryl peered out from behind the trees at the orcish force marching toward the main force. She and King Dryadson had come upon this plan while discussing the advantages and disadvantages they had when facing the orcs. The measure was simple: the orcs were better trained and much more experienced, and they would almost certainly win a pitched melee; however, elves and halflings were both naturally adept in stealth and subterfuge, and the elvish longbow would be a force to be reckoned with; and combined they had somewhere around twice the forces the Elslen orcs did. So, they agreed to strike the smaller of the two orcish armies, luring them into a position from which they could be destroyed before opening fire and overwhelming them with sheer numbers. Defeating the smaller force would reduce the orcs' numbers by a third, and victory would be almost certain.
A solid plan... And the larger orcish force was defending Elslen's capital, believing the elves would march straight to it, so Dryadson said. So, why did she feel so uneasy?
No matter, Beryl thought, focusing on the army ahead of her. They were getting closer. The High Sheriff lifted her left hand in the air for silence, then turned to face the Infantry, all seven-hundred and fifty of them. She did not begin speaking until she heard the militia in the main army causing a ruckus to get the orcs' attention.
"Remember your training," she said with a calm that betrayed none of her worry or fear. "We are hitting the enemy from their right flank. At the first sound of musket fire, we charge the orcs and shove our blades where it hurts. Until that moment, not a sound. Not a peep." She paused, then broke into a grin. "But we'll drink have plenty of ale and mutton after the battle, I tell you that!"
There were a few quiet cheers and chuckles. The men were obedient, trying not to let their eager and anxious thoughts break their discipline. Still, she could see the looks on their faces. They were ready for battle, some even seeming to look forward to it.
They won't after today, she thought to herself. Not even the best speaker could prepare them for real battle, and I'm not a talented orator.
"Into position, then!" she finished. "Wait for the muskets. Follow my lead."
It felt like ages were passing, but truly only a couple minutes went by. From the cover of the trees, Beryl and her companions could see the orcs advancing toward their friends. They marched at first, but then a single, sharp howl pierced the air; then, all the orcs were roaring at the top of their lungs. They broke into a terrible charge, pounding the earth beneath their heavy feet. Though there could not have been more than a thousand of them, the orcs' footfalls sounded like a stampede of elephants. They were coming closer and closer to the army in the open... closer... closer...
Then, Beryl could hear Tommen's voice hollering the one word command they'd all been waiting for: "Fire!" Hundreds of muskets fired all at once, and the battle was on.
Fitting Music
Beryl bolted into action at once, yelling out "Charge!" at the top of her lungs. Somewhere, as her feet slapped the ground as rapidly as they could, taking her toward the orcish flank, the words "For the Republic!" leapt from her throat like a panther. Similar cries were rising in the air, but she didn't really understand them. She was focused on the armored giants she was quickly approaching.
Beryl's forces clashed with the orcs just as elvish arrows began hissing from the woods on the opposite flank, putting down rows of surprised orcs before they could react. The once coordinated orcish charge was quickly becoming a confused mess; they were pressed on all sides by pitchforks, swords, arrows, muskets, and slings. It was all happening as planned.
Beryl stabbed her first orc as he was raising his sword up to cleave her in half. She darted behind him, then slipped her shortsword between the armor on the back of his leg, right into the back of the knee. As he fell forward with a surprised grunt, she dispatched him with a sharp thrust to the back of his neck, then ducked to avoid an axe swing that would have taken her head. The offending orc took a sling stone to the eye, falling back and covering his face; a halfling swordsman charged past her at the orcish formation and was literally stomped into the ground, then impaled with a spear. It was chaos.
But we are commanding the chaos, Beryl mused, rushing in to take another opportune strike at an orc whose back was to her. He fell a moment later with both his feet slashed open, the wounds deep, and couldn't get up. A pitchfork found its way into his face, and he stopped moving at all.
The battle continued in that way for a few minutes. That was all that was needed, really. Sheer numbers and unprepared flanks spelled doom for the small orcish force; half of those that weren't dead fled, and the other half began forming a circle, jabbing their weapons at anyone that came too close. They could not attack. In a few more shots from Dryadson's elves, the battle would be won.
But the arrows did not come. Then, Beryl heard the screams.
"The elves!" someone called. "They're under attack!"
The surrounded orcs seemed emboldened by those words, and they prepared to charge. A few quick shots from the halfling musketeers were enough to shatter their spirit, however; they broke then, some of them running, others charging foolishly at their enemies and meeting quick deaths. But Beryl wasn't worried about that. She yanked her spyglass from her belt and pressed it against her eye, staring across at the woods.
It was true. The elves were under attack by orcs, other orcs... a lot of orcs. More importantly, the elves were losing badly, and the orcs seemed to be pushing Dryadson's retinue toward the halflings.
"Infantry!" Beryl called out. "Come on! Follow me!" There was no time to think; she trusted Tommen and knew he'd command his forces well, but the elves were never going to survive without a few extra men on their side. The other elves, those who had helped flank the initial orcish force, seemed to have the same idea. The Erimir Infantry and the remainder of the elves charged into the thick of the fighting to protect King Dryadson.
As Beryl made her way toward the woods, she turned and noticed... Are the militia fleeing?
Fitting Music
They were. The Erimir militia and even the well-trained musketeers were making a break for their homeland, it seemed. Beryl's hopes sunk a bit. She truly hoped Tommen wasn't giving a real withdraw command; surely, that was a... It doesn't matter, she reminded herself. The King! Save the King! "Save the King!" she yelled at the top of her lungs. "To his side!"
She and the other halflings in her company plunged into the woods straight into a terrible battle. The woman beside her took a javelin through the skull before she could even reach the melee; the man beside her was skewered by an orcish spear that simply knocked his buckler away. Beryl herself only barely brought up her sword and shield in time to block the mace swinging down at her, and she found herself knocked to her rump from the sheer force of the blow. She rolled to the side and got up, throwing herself at her enemy perhaps too recklessly. She managed to catch him off-guard, though, and struck him again and again. After the fifth thrust, or maybe it was a clash, he finally fell in a bloody heap.
All around her was blood. She could smell it as much as she could see it. She tasted it on her lips, and she hated it. There was no turning back now, though. She intercepted an orcish arrow meant for an elf and found herself skittering back to escape orcish spears a moment later. Defeat seemed certain. She could barely strike without making an easy target out of herself. Elves and halflings were dying all around her. Defeat.
And then thunderclaps broke the air. No - muskets!
Enough orcs turned toward the shocking sound of gunfire, just for a few seconds, that Beryl and others beside her were able to press their brief advantage. Shrill halfling cries rose into the air; she could see the veritable mob of halflings charging out of the treeline behind the orcs, hurling stones and swinging axes, swords, and staves. Perhaps they were little more than a mob, but damn, such a mob she was glad to see!
The orcish warriors fought hard, pressed on opposite sides by two emboldened forces. Muskets fired again, and some of them started to flee the battlefield, knowing they were losing. Horns were being blown. Howls of rage and cries of pain could be heard, but the shouts of "For Erimir!" and "Belmorn!" and "Glory!" drowned them out. The orcs' certain victory quickly turned into full retreat.
They had won. Erimir and Belmorn beat the full might of Elslen's army. Victory.
All Beryl could say, though, as she stumbled beside an elf, with a stupid grin on her face, was: "Funny how we ambushed ambushers beat the ambushing orcs with a second ambush, eh?"
And then she collapsed to the ground to catch her breath.
It was a perfect ambush. The plan was solid. It should have left her without any doubts, but for some reason Beryl felt uneasy. Perhaps it was just because she had not led an army before, or perhaps because she knew the militia standing in the open were ten times as afraid as she was from her hidden vantage point. There were a lot of things that could "perhaps" be the cause of her anxiety, but she knew better than to worry too much. The battle was near, and inaction would lead to disaster.
"High Sheriff," murmured her aide, an old lieutenant rubbing his bald head. "Our scouts have sighted the orcish force ahead - a mere thousand, apparently slavers of some sort. They're equipped to capture, not to kill."
"Then we have a strong numerical advantage," noted Beryl with a nod. "Inform King Dryadson, though I'm sure the elves have already spotted the orcs as well. Tell them we are in position, and we are now setting the lure. Remind Marshal Tommen that he is to use the Mossy Meadows Technique if things go poorly."
"At the double, madame." The halfling saluted sharply, then jogged off to send messengers.
Beryl peered out from behind the trees at the orcish force marching toward the main force. She and King Dryadson had come upon this plan while discussing the advantages and disadvantages they had when facing the orcs. The measure was simple: the orcs were better trained and much more experienced, and they would almost certainly win a pitched melee; however, elves and halflings were both naturally adept in stealth and subterfuge, and the elvish longbow would be a force to be reckoned with; and combined they had somewhere around twice the forces the Elslen orcs did. So, they agreed to strike the smaller of the two orcish armies, luring them into a position from which they could be destroyed before opening fire and overwhelming them with sheer numbers. Defeating the smaller force would reduce the orcs' numbers by a third, and victory would be almost certain.
A solid plan... And the larger orcish force was defending Elslen's capital, believing the elves would march straight to it, so Dryadson said. So, why did she feel so uneasy?
No matter, Beryl thought, focusing on the army ahead of her. They were getting closer. The High Sheriff lifted her left hand in the air for silence, then turned to face the Infantry, all seven-hundred and fifty of them. She did not begin speaking until she heard the militia in the main army causing a ruckus to get the orcs' attention.
"Remember your training," she said with a calm that betrayed none of her worry or fear. "We are hitting the enemy from their right flank. At the first sound of musket fire, we charge the orcs and shove our blades where it hurts. Until that moment, not a sound. Not a peep." She paused, then broke into a grin. "But we'll drink have plenty of ale and mutton after the battle, I tell you that!"
There were a few quiet cheers and chuckles. The men were obedient, trying not to let their eager and anxious thoughts break their discipline. Still, she could see the looks on their faces. They were ready for battle, some even seeming to look forward to it.
They won't after today, she thought to herself. Not even the best speaker could prepare them for real battle, and I'm not a talented orator.
"Into position, then!" she finished. "Wait for the muskets. Follow my lead."
It felt like ages were passing, but truly only a couple minutes went by. From the cover of the trees, Beryl and her companions could see the orcs advancing toward their friends. They marched at first, but then a single, sharp howl pierced the air; then, all the orcs were roaring at the top of their lungs. They broke into a terrible charge, pounding the earth beneath their heavy feet. Though there could not have been more than a thousand of them, the orcs' footfalls sounded like a stampede of elephants. They were coming closer and closer to the army in the open... closer... closer...
Then, Beryl could hear Tommen's voice hollering the one word command they'd all been waiting for: "Fire!" Hundreds of muskets fired all at once, and the battle was on.
Fitting Music
Beryl bolted into action at once, yelling out "Charge!" at the top of her lungs. Somewhere, as her feet slapped the ground as rapidly as they could, taking her toward the orcish flank, the words "For the Republic!" leapt from her throat like a panther. Similar cries were rising in the air, but she didn't really understand them. She was focused on the armored giants she was quickly approaching.
Beryl's forces clashed with the orcs just as elvish arrows began hissing from the woods on the opposite flank, putting down rows of surprised orcs before they could react. The once coordinated orcish charge was quickly becoming a confused mess; they were pressed on all sides by pitchforks, swords, arrows, muskets, and slings. It was all happening as planned.
Beryl stabbed her first orc as he was raising his sword up to cleave her in half. She darted behind him, then slipped her shortsword between the armor on the back of his leg, right into the back of the knee. As he fell forward with a surprised grunt, she dispatched him with a sharp thrust to the back of his neck, then ducked to avoid an axe swing that would have taken her head. The offending orc took a sling stone to the eye, falling back and covering his face; a halfling swordsman charged past her at the orcish formation and was literally stomped into the ground, then impaled with a spear. It was chaos.
But we are commanding the chaos, Beryl mused, rushing in to take another opportune strike at an orc whose back was to her. He fell a moment later with both his feet slashed open, the wounds deep, and couldn't get up. A pitchfork found its way into his face, and he stopped moving at all.
The battle continued in that way for a few minutes. That was all that was needed, really. Sheer numbers and unprepared flanks spelled doom for the small orcish force; half of those that weren't dead fled, and the other half began forming a circle, jabbing their weapons at anyone that came too close. They could not attack. In a few more shots from Dryadson's elves, the battle would be won.
But the arrows did not come. Then, Beryl heard the screams.
"The elves!" someone called. "They're under attack!"
The surrounded orcs seemed emboldened by those words, and they prepared to charge. A few quick shots from the halfling musketeers were enough to shatter their spirit, however; they broke then, some of them running, others charging foolishly at their enemies and meeting quick deaths. But Beryl wasn't worried about that. She yanked her spyglass from her belt and pressed it against her eye, staring across at the woods.
It was true. The elves were under attack by orcs, other orcs... a lot of orcs. More importantly, the elves were losing badly, and the orcs seemed to be pushing Dryadson's retinue toward the halflings.
"Infantry!" Beryl called out. "Come on! Follow me!" There was no time to think; she trusted Tommen and knew he'd command his forces well, but the elves were never going to survive without a few extra men on their side. The other elves, those who had helped flank the initial orcish force, seemed to have the same idea. The Erimir Infantry and the remainder of the elves charged into the thick of the fighting to protect King Dryadson.
As Beryl made her way toward the woods, she turned and noticed... Are the militia fleeing?
Fitting Music
They were. The Erimir militia and even the well-trained musketeers were making a break for their homeland, it seemed. Beryl's hopes sunk a bit. She truly hoped Tommen wasn't giving a real withdraw command; surely, that was a... It doesn't matter, she reminded herself. The King! Save the King! "Save the King!" she yelled at the top of her lungs. "To his side!"
She and the other halflings in her company plunged into the woods straight into a terrible battle. The woman beside her took a javelin through the skull before she could even reach the melee; the man beside her was skewered by an orcish spear that simply knocked his buckler away. Beryl herself only barely brought up her sword and shield in time to block the mace swinging down at her, and she found herself knocked to her rump from the sheer force of the blow. She rolled to the side and got up, throwing herself at her enemy perhaps too recklessly. She managed to catch him off-guard, though, and struck him again and again. After the fifth thrust, or maybe it was a clash, he finally fell in a bloody heap.
All around her was blood. She could smell it as much as she could see it. She tasted it on her lips, and she hated it. There was no turning back now, though. She intercepted an orcish arrow meant for an elf and found herself skittering back to escape orcish spears a moment later. Defeat seemed certain. She could barely strike without making an easy target out of herself. Elves and halflings were dying all around her. Defeat.
And then thunderclaps broke the air. No - muskets!
Enough orcs turned toward the shocking sound of gunfire, just for a few seconds, that Beryl and others beside her were able to press their brief advantage. Shrill halfling cries rose into the air; she could see the veritable mob of halflings charging out of the treeline behind the orcs, hurling stones and swinging axes, swords, and staves. Perhaps they were little more than a mob, but damn, such a mob she was glad to see!
The orcish warriors fought hard, pressed on opposite sides by two emboldened forces. Muskets fired again, and some of them started to flee the battlefield, knowing they were losing. Horns were being blown. Howls of rage and cries of pain could be heard, but the shouts of "For Erimir!" and "Belmorn!" and "Glory!" drowned them out. The orcs' certain victory quickly turned into full retreat.
They had won. Erimir and Belmorn beat the full might of Elslen's army. Victory.
All Beryl could say, though, as she stumbled beside an elf, with a stupid grin on her face, was: "Funny how we ambushed ambushers beat the ambushing orcs with a second ambush, eh?"
And then she collapsed to the ground to catch her breath.
Titanic said So quiet today...
Don't worry, we haven't all vanished or anything. I made maps for a battle post to show troop movements, then got a headache / other allergy stuff and went to bed. I'm up at a funny time right now.
Senor Herp said Interesting anecdote about the war, though. I was aware of the involvement of Prussian mercenaries and drill instructors, but not the Blue Book, or the use of militia as an unwilling anvil. Very interesting!
There's lots of interesting stuff from that period of time, actually; from the birth of the U.S.A. to the mid/late 1800's. Some random trivia you may not know: an American known as William Walker invaded Nicaragua no less than five times and the Baja Strip once (and was hailed as a hero after his invasion of Baja by citizens of New Orleans) and was acquitted for his crimes each time by the U.S. courts... until people in the region decided NOT to ship him back to the U.S. and try him themselves, at which point he was executed. Also, the guy who invented Kellogg's corn flakes also comes from this time period; he was a doctor who believed a diet of corn flakes and yogurt enemas was best for your health. Yes, yogurt enemas. He wanted people to shove yogurt up their butts.
Also, the second and third presidents of the United States, John Adams and Thomas Jefferson, died on the same day.
...History is interesting, yo.
EDIT: Oh, and the tidbit about the militia being used as an anvil? That was just one battle. But I posted that to accentuate the fact that militia have historically been undependable in a pitched melee, including the U.S. militia in the 1700's.
This post I just made is very short because I think I'm making a second post today. Syrian, send me a message whenever you get the chance so we can figure out if we're handling the battle today.
The Republic of Erimir
The Halflings Are Ready
A new season begins. The whole of the halfling army has arrived at Shireguard and met with the elven forces. They number 2,750 in total, men and women. Five hundred of the gathered force make up the Erimir Musketeers, a relatively new unit in the armies of Erimir and their ace in the hole, capable of taking out opponents twice their size with a single shot from a musket. Another 750 of the halfling force makes up the Erimir Infantry, a staple of the halfling military equipped with swords, slings, and shields, well-versed in defensive combat: parrying, dodging, blocking, and withdrawing from combat. The rest of the army consists of largely untrained militia, halflings equipped with whatever weapons or tools they could get their hands on.
The halflings are ready for the upcoming battle, and await it anxiously.
A new season begins. The whole of the halfling army has arrived at Shireguard and met with the elven forces. They number 2,750 in total, men and women. Five hundred of the gathered force make up the Erimir Musketeers, a relatively new unit in the armies of Erimir and their ace in the hole, capable of taking out opponents twice their size with a single shot from a musket. Another 750 of the halfling force makes up the Erimir Infantry, a staple of the halfling military equipped with swords, slings, and shields, well-versed in defensive combat: parrying, dodging, blocking, and withdrawing from combat. The rest of the army consists of largely untrained militia, halflings equipped with whatever weapons or tools they could get their hands on.
The halflings are ready for the upcoming battle, and await it anxiously.
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