Schylerwalker — Roleplayer Guild

Damarskan, the Golden Bay

Moonlight dappled the rippling waters of the Golden Bay, making the gentle waves look more platinum or silver. The waters slapped against the hull of Toreg's pleasure barge, Sweet Promise. The Golden Bay took its name from the amount of wealth that traveled across it; foreign traders coming their great ships with exotic goods, none of whom failed to marvel at the splendor of Damarskan. Largest and most powerful city in the world, Damarskan sprawled like some immense, lazy beast. It never truly rested, and the beast's anger was terrible to see when it roused. Now, the city was peaceful. Thousands of different colored lights shone in its innumerable streets and alleys, some of them bobbing up and down as people went about their business or pleasure. Toreg leaned back in his silk-lined cushions, dipping his fingers in to the bowl held by a slave at his shoulder; he sucked the heated, spiced honey off the fingertips and sighed in happy contentment, lazily whiping his fingers off on the slave's already filthy tunic.

The night was warm, almost oppressively so. The air was almost still, and what wind there was seemed to just make things hotter. Toreg reclined in a huge carved chair, almost like a tilted bowl, heaped with a small mountain of over-stuffed silken cushions, many tasseled and embroidered with fine, expensive threads. Around him stood half a dozen slaves, all men, carrying bowls and plates of sweets and treats. Lounging in a similar chair across from him was a half-dressed man, his muscular, tanned form almost leonine in its barely restrained, deadly grace. His arm was around the shoulders a completely unclothed slave girl, a pale and petite elf from somewhere far to the north, brought down by raiding traders. More slave girls of varying races strolled around in wisps of tattered silk, showing off their charms.

Toreg plucked a piece of bloody lamb, which soaked in a bowl of steamed mint leaves and pomegranate seeds, and tossed in his mouth. He chewed with relish, juices streaming down his already shining, fat cheeks, to disappear in to the folds of his neck. Toreg Eksnaya was a man of wealth and influence, a merchant prince of the Dominion. While not nobility, his silver and spices could summon up a large enough army to threaten any ghekhav, and even make a bardzr pause before troubling the prince. But Toreg wasn't interested in war, or even power, necessarily. Just wealth, and the comforts it could bring him. Most thought of Toreg as a glutton, a slovenly pig of a man who was content to root around in filth and flesh as his servants brought him treats and cleaned up his leavings. But behind those shiny cheeks and wobbling folds lurked a cunning, shrewd trader.

This was known by his guest, a man who went only by the name of Gammeth. His skin was darker than an Ordovin's, with auburn hair and grey-blue eyes. He was fantastically well-muscled, but with a lean swimmer's build. The only clothing he deigned to bother with were a pair of loose trousers in the Vale style, and simple cloths wrapped around his hands and feet. Dangling from the belt of a nearby guard were the man's weapons; a short-sword, plain and unadorned, and a pair of cestus. Well kept, but worn with use. Gammeth did not seem terribly concerned at being without his weapons -- small as they were -- and surrounded by armed guards. The guards themselves were tense, hands never far from sword and axe and spear. On the forecastle of the barge were two hidden guards, arrow shafts laid across bowstaves, ready for any trouble.

But both men were at ease, chatting playfully as they snacked on sweetened lamb, pickled duck's eggs, flaky, crunchy bread dripping with honeyed nuts, and spicy, fried cheese balls. Gammeth ate sparingly, and shook his head whenever he was offered anything but boiled water with limes floating in it to drink. Toreg's slaves constantly refilled his food bowls, and he emptied several jars of raspberry wine, and an entire bottle of cognac. They made a little game of their conversation; Gammeth spoke a heavily accented, thick version of Ordovin, called New Ordovin by some, while Toreg spoke a very lightly accented Safani. Their talk was carefree, of the weather, trade, Gammeth's travels up and down the western coast, the supple curves of the slave girls. After a time, however, their talk turned to business.

"The payment has changed hands many times," Toreg explained, dipping his lamb in to the spiced honey. "To make it difficult to trace. At the moment, it is in the form of Savian trade bars. A week from now, they'll be exchanged for Fenian nuggets." He chewed happily, speaking around the tender pink meat. "And then finally for Aylsfyn silvers, which will be transported to your company's headquarters in Ashri." Gammeth nodded along, seeming unconcerned. "I trust you, Toreg," he said softly, his voice like silk on steel. "You have always followed through in the past." The merchant prince nodded, satisfied. "And you know to make it look like it was the responsibility of those easterners, right? We don't need to march south right now..." Gammeth laughed, a chilling sound. "I am not an amateur. Have no fear, old friend...the Grand Marshall will be dead in a fortnight."

- - -

The northern border, near Taelyc's domain

Taelyc del'Krasymos looked over the army he assembled, his mien grim, his thoughts gloomy. It is not enough, he thought, counting the campfires, looking over the horselines. We will drown in Dominion spears. He had assembled ten thousand of his own norrakoch, men and even women from the surrounding lands and his own household. Most were tough and capable warriors, though few had seen true conflict beyond the constant struggles between the clans; none had fought in the wars against the Vydari, for example. Five thousand warriors had come out of the mountains, clansmen who kept the old way and still resisted the might of the Dominion and the kinsmen they considered traitors. The rest claimed to be from some realm in the eastern half of the Vale called 'Geistarussir,' but he couldn't help but notice that the vast majority of them were Russkl, the rest being Geirlish lancers and horse-archers. He was glad to see the Russkl though. They were fierce fighters and well-outfitted, and they hated the Dominion with a passion.

The army was spread out on a lightly forested ridgeline, using the fold of the land and the many scattered boulders as cover from the wind. The high road went right through the middle of the campsite, and if one followed that road for another twenty miles or so, would arrive at Taelyc's castle, Stoneseat. It was a heavily defensible area, and Taelyc hoped that the Dominion, in their pride and arrogance, would not hesitate to attack him here, wasting their vast numbers on the fortified position. His scouts reported that the Grand Marshall was not leading the army, that Andros vel'Orbansk would be; an empty sack of suet, he'd probably command the attack from a silken pavilion while other men did the killing and dying for him. Taelyc had no patience for such cowards.

An outrider came rushing to the spur of rock where Taelyc and his captains and councilors surveyed the landscape. He was out of breath, his horse's flanks sweating and bleeding from the scout's spurs. "My lords," he gasped, dropping to one knee and bowing his head. Taelyc turned, frowning down at the man. He made an impressive figure, a towering man of more than six feet; pale green eyes shown out of a heavily bearded face, his shoulder length, dark brown hair bound up underneath his rune-incised helmet. A pair of small silver antlers burst from the crown of the helm, with a crescent moon cast between them. He wore a hauberk of steel mail, complete with silvered gauntlets and sabotons, and hanging at his side was a hand-and-a-half sword of Savian steel. He leaned in intently, as did his retainers, to hear what the scout had to say.

"The Dominion army is four hour's march away," the scout said. "Andros is at their head. It was difficult to tell their numbers, but their line of march stretched out for near two miles. I'd say at least thirty, forty thousand, maybe more." Taelyc's brow furrowed, making his already solemn face fierce. He'd assumed even more than that actually; he'd hoped the Dominion would send some overwhelming force. If he could defeat a hundred thousand Ordovin conscripts on the field, it would send a strong message to the ghekhav who still hesitated to bend the knee to Damarskan. "Any aznvuygun? Aspet?" demanded one of the captains, and the others nodded and muttered under their breath. The scout nodded slowly, nervously. "Yes. Of the aznvuygun, at least ten thousand. Maybe two thousand aspet." Silence greeted this announcement, and some of the younger men shared cautious glances. It was a ferocious number of well-armed fighting men that face them today.

Taelyc uttered quiet commands, and his lieutenants ran off to take their positions. The Gevor would command the center, he and a hundred armoured horsemen acting as a reserve to fill in any gaps should a crisis emerged. The clansmen were split in two groups, long lines of men holding slings and longbows, protected by Russkl spearmen. On the right were clan melee warriors and the rest of the Russkl; to the left, on the flatter, grassier plain, were the Geirlish cavalry, augmented by two hundred of Taelyc's own horsemen. The men were quiet for the most part, though many joked or even sang as they gathered in to lines and squares and crescents, archers and slingers crouching behind boulders or in hastily dug trenches. All talked faded when the sound of the approaching army could be heard. "Lord and Lady, look at them all," muttered one of the cavalrymen at Taelyc's shoulder. He said nothing, but said a silent prayer.

Out of the mist and fog they came, a great solid of wall of men, bristling with axe and bow and spear. It was difficult to tell how many there were, but it was obvious that the scouts' estimates had not been far off. Taelyc put their number at thirty thousand, with the rank and file norrokoch in the center, and veterans on the flank. In the very center of the oncoming army he could see an iron fist of aznvuygun, maybe a thousand but probably less; the banners of the Dominion flapped above them, but elsewhere he could only see personal standards, with the colors of Orbansk being the most common; quartered purple and red, with a golden winged chalice. No Kas, he thought, concerned. He couldn't see any of the mountain clansmen among the enemy host, but it was difficult to tell; the rain was coming down harder, and the fog was getting thicker. Damn it, Lady, now is not a good time!.

The enemy archers did not fire until they were very close; the wind and rain was blowing against them, and Taelyc's forces were elevated, for the most part. The clansmen made a deadly addition to the weather pelting the Dominion troops, and men screamed and died as arrows launched from heavy warbows punched through their bronze, leather, and wood armour and shields. Lead bullets clattered off of spears and helmets, and the front lines became ragged and disorganized, men tripping over bodies and becoming mired in the mud. Men on either side began to scream threats and insults as the lines came closer and closer together, and hatchets and javelins began to zip back and forth. Few found Taelyc's men, considering their cover and height, and many Dominion men fell to the missiles.

Skirmishers broke out as the Dominion troops were finally able to gain some ground, but it was hard going, fighting uphill through mud and rain and arrows, against enemies who were difficult to even see. Signals raced along the line, and the Geirlish cavalry charged. It was more of a lopsided canter through the watery pools, and the arrows launched by the horse-archers had little effect, but the horsemen were able to throw back the veteran norrakoch beginning to threaten Taelyc's left flank. The aznvuygun in the center had taken little if any damage from the constant volleys, but were struggling to make any headway up the ridge in their heavy armour, and were mostly resorting to flinging javelins and taunts up at Taelyc's men, calling them cowards and traitors.

The lines were thoroughly entangled at this point, and some problems had begun to arise for both sides. Few if any of the Dominion soldiers wore proper uniforms, which also went for Taelyc's soldiers, and men and women from both armies found themselves fighting troops on their own sides; they were all Ordovin, after all. And with the aznvuygun unable to really get to the enemy, and the clansmen as mostly ranged troops, everyone fighting on the frontlines looked practically the same. It dawned on Taelyc that this might even be intentional. As he watched the chaos, veteran norrakoch were swarming over the Geirlish cavalry, outnumbered ten to one, pulling them from their horses and hacking the unfortunate men to pieces. The survivors fled, and the veteran norrakoch pounded forward through the mud, hitting the left flank hard. His heavy cavalry on that side attempted a countercharge, but it was like throwing a brick at a tidal wave; his cavalry disappeared with a veritable splash of men and horses. It was carnage terrible to watch, and he looked away to survey other parts of the battlefield.

We're losing, he realized. The rain and fog were so thick now that the left flank was difficult to see, and the right flank was entirely obscured. However, Ruskkl warriors and clan archers were sprinting past him in battered clumps, trailing broken weapons and shields behind them. With grim determination, he rallied his retainers behind him, and they began to slowly pick their way down the ridge, using every bit of cover possible. He knew that the Dominion was truly here for him; if he could slow down the Dominion army just a bit, and sacrifice himself, some of his people might escape slavery and death. He and his knights thundered down the muddy slopes, banners flying, and crashed in to the flank of the aznvuygun, who'd been so intent on throwing javelins at the fleeing soldiers that they had not even seen the cavalry descending on them. They snatched up their longer spears and attempted to form a shield wall, but Taelyc and his men clove through them; Taelyc's sword flashed, dealing death at every stroke. His men gave a ragged cheer, and with renewed strength, many streamed down the hill with him.

His men plunged through the block of aznvuygun, but lost impetus with every moment; they were hopelessly outnumbered, and while many heavy infantry fell before the fury of their charge, there were always more men to replace those that fell. He saw a block of some fifty dismounted aspet thirty yards away, the banner of Orbansk above them. Could it be...? With one last tired surge of strength, Taelyc and his remaining dozen or so men kicked their hacked and bloody destriers forward, cutting and stabbing left and right. Aznvuygun came in from every side, and Taelyc's men fell one by one until only he remained. He could see Andros, looking somehow smug yet miserable on a massive warhorse in gilded barding, his armor gilded as well and covered in dripping, multicolored silks. Taelyc pointed his sword at the bardzr'ghekhav, and shouted "ATTEND, my lord! Draw your steel and f--" But his words were cut off. He choked, unable to breath. Confused and suddenly frightened, Taelyc toppled off of his horse.

His leg snapped under him. He looked around; his men were dying all around him. Thousands of aznvuygun were coming out of the mists and swarming over the hill, and realized, more confused than ever, that the rainclouds had moved on, and the sun was shining. He was able to watch with dimming vision the aznvuygun butchering those few men that fought to the last, swarming their positions. He coughed again, and his blood, he saw with mild detachment, was black. The ranks of the aspet part somewhat, and he saw a young women in soaked robes staring sorrowfully at him. A crushed vial lay in the mud at her feet, and a strange blue light was fading from her fingertips. Taelyc gave one last rasping cough and died, confused and alone.

On the hill top, Taelyc's last commanders were attempting to gather the survivors and form an organized retreat, when they all started to cough uncontrollably. Their men watched in horror as thick black liquid exploded from their mouths or leaked out of their eyes and ears. One by one they collapsed and died in agony. These soldiers were only able to stare for a few moments before a long line of grim, implacable aznvuygun came up over the ridge and descended upon them. The rainwater trickling down the hillside became a red torrent, and the earth drank it up greedily, accepting the gory tribute.

- - -

Grand Marshall Urrag vel'Meskemos read the final missive that had come from the frontlines. It was written with red ink on finest vellum, and stated simply 'Yes, Grand Marshall. Overwhelmingly.' He nodded, satisfied, and cast the message in to the fire.

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