Shireling

Pro Patria Mori - A Tale of Sailships and Muskets (Still Recruiting)

Fort Ingarrson, Near Kienne

Captain Invernius stood with his shoulder propped against the flat muzzle of a musket, looking out over the training yard seeing the soldiers practicing with the weight of their new muskets in mock melee combat. Wordlessly, he chewed on a bit of mint and spat leaves out onto the dirt. His commanding officer, a colonel with blazing red hair and uncomfortably long jowls strode up beside him and crossed his arms. "Well, Ubren knows the score once more, I wager. Word just came in from the capital that they've reinforced Torrik. But there's good news, the Attolians may have an out in the war which means we'll have an out. Similarly, His Holiness is calling another summit. Perhaps this is the chance to avoid bloodshed altogether."

Invernius simply shrugged. "They're planning to use Marines as line infantry. It's been done before, and our Marine forces are certainly up to the task, but fighting on open ground in central Ubren will be impossible. No heavy artillery, no regiments of horse, it would be suicide."

"The hope, I believe, is to return a bit to our roots, Soren. You know, the old stories they still tell in Toubres about the Aontan raiders in longships coming to take away the women, wine, and gold. Only I don't know what we would do with Ubren women," he chuckled, "we've just got to keep them on their toes. Besides, our services might be needed soon in the east as well, what with Rubrus being a part of the Treaty."

"I still don't like that," Soren complained, folding his arms and playing the melancholic.

Pro Patria Mori - A Tale of Sailships and Muskets (Still Recruiting)

Kienne, Aontas

"My most sovereign liege," Lady Kasparov performed a delicate curtsy and rested on the arm of Captain Svenricksen, "I had hoped I would have the honor of accompanying you to Castlerue tomorrow morn, as is our custom."

Kristian gave a polite nod of the head but said no more than, "We shall speak of it later," before deferring to the captain who had the lady in escort, "Captain, reports?"

The military man handed over a rolled piece of parchment, which the king unbound and read on the spot. They were reports detailing the removal of the army from Torrik and a vast portion of the civilian population which had been resettled. The report was dated two days ago, and no doubt had made quick time on a clipper from Fjall in the Torrikan Islands. The monarch rolled the report back up and tucked it into his frock coat. "Thank you."

All the while, an uncomfortable silence had passed over the room, and Svenricksen looked to the Lady, who seemed to be biting her cheeks for fear of crying. Seeing this, Kristian ordered Svenricksen out and bade him leave the doors open but range a ways. With the two of them in his study, the fire crackling in the hearth behind his desk, they could speak freely and speaking freely was a forte of the Lady Kasparov, a daughter of half-Rubrusian lineage which would normally have signified a blood composed of ice but for the peculiar type of choleric disposition which she was taken with. "My Lord," she began, "do I speak your mind in saying that you wish me speak honestly?"

Kristian nodded, slowly, fearfully.

"Then I must speak honest when I tell you of the wretched condition which you have left me in. Long has my heart been warm to yours, but of late the High Office seems to have filled your veins with ice."

"Stay, woman."

"Nay, my lord, stay and be cheated. Who do I appear to be that you can with such short shrift disperse my suit without a word? What, a I your whore sir or your lady? Am I to understand that our engagement is ended?"

Silence.

"I beg pardon your liege, I had thought there came an answer but 'twas too small to hear it."

Kristian's face knitted in a careworn expression of dread, a lump built tight in his throat. He paced a short distance, till he could put a hand to the frozen window pane and look out on the snow-drenched courtyard below, where serving men were carrying in the firewood in chords. For a while, he was silent, and then he relented, "It is I who should beg pardon of you, Agnes, but it has been the heavy discharge of my office which has kept me from relaying this hard thing to you," he paused, "nay, it is more like my cowardice..."

The lady approached a few steps, "Dearest Kristian, I know the contents of your heart as plainly as though it were written on your face."

"Then you will know," he said, "that my suit to you was honest, and that my withdrawal of that suit is also honest... Thy station befits a queen, but my country requires that I retain my marriage bed for a foreigner, as befits our custom. I had not expected that so heavy a mantle would fall upon me, and if I had then I would have been criminal in the wooing. Therefore, I release you of your engagement."

"And if I shall not be released?"

"You shall be." He turned away and pressed his face closer to the glass, feeling the cold radiate through the pane frosted over with snowflake patterns at the corners. She, meanwhile, took a place by the desk not unlike the place she and he had sat when he was a dashing young captain and she was barely a woman when their suit began nearly a decade ago. From her bosom she produced her kerchief and began to sob which was, to put it lightly, not a comfort to the monarch.

The butler emerged from without, took a short survey of the room. "Uhm, my lord, I shall return." He said, attempting to beat a hasty retreat before Kristian's commands intercepted him. "Nay, Isaac, the Lady Kasparov has been ill and it has not well-countenanced her lately. Bring up tea for us presently, but what news do you bear that you intercede most impudently?"

The butler, somewhat cowed, replied, "It is Ambassador Faustus's wish that you discharge immediately a letter to Attolia. He desires us to join the community of nations called the Continental Alliance."

"Yes, I read his letter. I will reply anon in the affirmative."

"My Lord, is it wise to discuss such counsels in such untrained presence?" His eyes shifted to the lady.

"The Lady Kasparov has long been my counselor, Isaac, let nothing ill of her befall your lips."

"Yes, my lord." The butler quickly departed and the room was again silent save the crackling of the fire.

Pro Patria Mori - A Tale of Sailships and Muskets (Still Recruiting)

The Flight of the Torrikans

Columns of defending troops, depleted and dejected, quickly buried their dead on land now held by the enemy and moved on towards the coast. Off the rocky beaches of northern Torrik, Aontan frigates and lineships flew the royal colours that now laid tattered on every battlefield of the region and swallowed up load after load of soldiers and townsmen till they were full to the gunwales with men wearing the long face of defeat, stern women, and crying babes. The people of Torrik, long friends and considered a familial race to their northern neighbors, sat looking at their Letters of Transit in stunned disbelief. The choice remained to them whether they would stay in their native land under the Ubren jackboot or whether they would depart for friendlier shores where, no doubt, much hardship was to be had. In the end, many chose to remain.

Captain Soren Invernius looked on from the uncomfortable height of his saddled warhorse as he trotted alongside a column of fusiliers making their way to the gravel beach of Emlas south of Hjorth. The men, some without boots, bandaged and bloodied, uniforms tattered from the fray, marched bent forward with their bodies pointed towards the beach as if the whole of their being yearned for the rescue of the waiting ships, like plants to sunlight. The Captain, being much faster on his mount than his crawling battalion, reached the beach first and exchanged salutes with a naval lieutenant who was commanding the shoreboats.

"We have passage for half the battalion, sir," was the curt reply. Invernius nodded, putting his ungloved left hand into his coat to protect it from an unseasonably chill ocean breeze. "How many trips have you made so far?"

"Two this past half week," said the lieutenant. Soren turned and looked back down the road where his soldiers were approaching slowly but surely. He resigned himself to the fact that he might never see his verdant country town in Southern Torrik again, or if he did it would be draped in enemy banners. He blotted the thought from his mind and thought instead of the task at hand. The healthiest soldiers would have to camp the night on the beach. He turned his horse and approached his sergeants, "Organize the men by respect to their accoutrements and general fitness for duty. The wounded, sick, and those without proper footwear or clothing shall embark tonight. The rest will remain till morning."

"Yes, Captain," snapped the sergeants who immediately sprang to their tasks. Following his troops was a large column of civilians, who had been instructed to bring only what could comfortably be carried but to his chagrin he could see several wagons behind the main column. He turned his thoughts from that for the moment, and turned his eyes across to the empty space on the horizon where the shores of Kienne were just over the curve of the globe, and therein a monarch with a letter.

The Missive

"When did this come in?"

"Just arrived, marked for the king's eyes."

King Kristian rubbed his stubbled chin with his hand and pondered what it could mean. Seizing a letter opener from his desk, he parted the wax seal and unfolded the parchment. Then, glancing up at the butler who had delivered the message, he made motion for the door of his study to be closed. The servant left, dutifully shutting the large wooden door behind him. Sunlight, filtering in through the paned windows of the palace study, served as light enough to illuminate Lothair's missive.

Kristian found the tone of the letter incredibly off-putting. Never enjoying being preached to, he nevertheless read between the lines and realized how desperate the situation in southeastern Europe was indeed. The Hijeen were, much like they had been doing for centuries, raping and pillaging across large swaths of the continent. He felt sympathy, if only for humanitarian reasons and not particularly reasons of piety, but more immediate concerns kept him always thinking of the very threatening neighbors which Aontas seemed to have on all sides and launching an expedition in southern Europe would consume time, resources, and men that the young king felt simply could not be afforded.

Immediately, he began penning his reply:

Most valiant Emperor, Defender of the Faith, and philosopher-king,

I fear to inform you that the situation in Aontas is, as you might have noticed, rapidly deteriorating. Our loss of mainland Torrik to the aspiring Ubrens has left us severely hamstrung in terms of military assistance. Additionally, we are increasingly wary of our neighbors both to the east and the west who might seek to take advantage of our weakened position. Our lords and retinues are, although fiercely faithful to the One Religion, more concerned with enemies of a nearer and more immediate kind, albeit less bloodthirsty. Furthermore, my father's death has put a great strain on the family here such that I cannot leave to participate, which should befit my rank as king of the god-fearing Aontan people in such a holy endeavor.

Therefore I must decline your request for aid, given the political situation here in the north, until such provisions can be made that our brave crusaders will not be needed to defend the farms and towns of our own people. The concerns I am sure you fully understand and can appreciate the gravity of my situation. I remain dutifully at your call, as my father was, in the bonds of noble friendship between two powerful kingdoms and fellow believers.

Signed simply: "K"

After placing the quill back into the ink, Kristian summoned the butler back into the study to hand the letter off, and by the normal course of exchanging diplomatic communiques it would fall into the Attolian emperor's hands eventually.

Pro Patria Mori - A Tale of Sailships and Muskets (Still Recruiting)

THE KINGDOM OF AONTAS

The Coronation of Kristian IX

In Kienne the mood was somber even as the summer sweltered and warm rains washed over the fjords and deep vales. The distant and reverberate tone of iron bells summoned villager and townsman from their dwellings as the funeral procession of King Matthias wound down country roads and through villages and towns on its way from the King's place of death at his summer palace in Kahsrue to the crypts of St. Margreth in the heart of the capital. A monk bearing a crucifix led the procession, followed by a company of lifeguards, then a group of monks who intoned the death chant.

"Dies iræ, dies illa
Solvet sæclum in favilla,
Teste David cum Sibylla.

Quantus tremor est futurus,
Quando Judex est venturus,
Cuncta stricte discussurus!

Next the hearse, and last of all the carriage bearing Prince Kristian, who would be the ninth to bear that name, and his mother who was careworn and face was streaked with bitter tears. For his part, the Aontan prince just stared out the window of the coach, watching the dull villagers stroll up to the roadside, some holding posies and other wild flowers to throw in front of the hearse. His jaw tightened and then relaxed. His was a youthful face, left unscarred by the carnage of battle which had wounded his younger brothers. A bitter irony it was father to die first, and more to the point - peaceably in his sleep. Kristian heard the whispers in the palace, watched the officers come and go by night, and knew that he was inheriting a troubled kingdom.

Funerals gave way to wakes gave way to summer nights, especially one summer night when he was summoned before the Archbishop at Kienne. Dressed in finery that the forty-two-year-old heir found particularly silly, he appeared before his first audience - a crowd of aristocrats, military officers, clergy, and foreign diplomatic officials. There, with few words, the crown was placed upon his head, and its weight fell like a crushing blow on his head from the gnarled fingers of the old Archbishop.

Kristian IX, King of Aontas

Diplomatic Action

An envoy is sent to the Ubrans to hammer out the terms of a peace treaty. The Kingdom of Aontas agrees to cede all of mainland Torrik to The Kingdom of Ubren in exchange for (1 the safe release of all Aontan prisoners of war and 2) an agreement to allow all Aontan nationals both military and civilian to freely emigrate from Torrik to Kienne unmolested.

Military Action

The fleets stationed in Torrik and the surrounding provinces are used to transport displaced troops, released prisoners, and refugees to Fjall in the Torrikan islands or to Kienne. Local authorities are authorized to petition the national government for funding to provide housing and relief for those displaced by the war.

National Action

Government loans of up to 3,000 Aontan Crowns are apportioned for master gunsmiths to develop new weapons for the Army, whose firearms are in need of modernization. The program, run by the Aontan Army, is instructed to invest in new designs and patterns that show promise in being mass-produced.