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Corcaigh mor

Founding post for Tírelloch
Settling a dispute
A dark, miserable evening it was when the sound of thundering hooves tore up the muddy track that winded around the slopes of the mountain of Fossagh. Numbering three dozen or so, the riders all wore thick heavy hooded mantles and cloaks to afford them some shelter from the rain which had saturated the road. The sound had roused a Goidelic sheep herder to peer his head out the door of his little hovel, not wanting to get himself wet. Little heads curiously peered out the window in amazement at the sight of the cavalry riding past. The horsemen took little notice, their concern was to reach their destination as soon as possible and get in from the cold and wet. The wind, blowing furiously down the Glen of Fossagh brought the rain almost horizontally.

After riding the better half of a day, the flickering lights from the dark rectangular silhouette became visible to the riders. It was the castle of Carrigbearna, perched high on a rocky outcrop at the head of the glen. Watchmen spotted the horsemen approach with great speed, the sound of horses heavily panting was all the riders could hear, bar those at the front who could hear the fluttering of the standard, a red stag on a white field. The doors of the gatehouse were unbarred and swung open hastily.

“MacCarthaí Mór!” a cry went out in the courtyard as the riders streamed in, which was echoed within the castle itself to alert of the arrival of Cormac Laidir MacCarthaí Mór, or Cormac the Strong, who was the head of several septs of MacCarthaí clans, Mór, meaning great, signifying the chief clan.

A number of servants and horseboys begrudgingly left their quarters to attend to MacCarthaí Mór’s horses and to see that his men were attended to with dry cloaks and mantles.
In the bright and welcoming doorway of the towerhouse of Carrigbearna, a large figure emerged to welcome MacCarthaí’s men inside.

“Chief MacMurrough,” Cormac said with a nod, before removing his cathbarr[1] helm.

“Crom’s blessings, Chief Cormac, come in and rest your bones.” Dómnall MacMurrough said, gesturing Cormac and his men inside, which they quickly did, shuffling single file into the great hall.

The whitewashed walls of the great hall were well lit, and were donned by fine tapestries as well as the trophy skulls of many a great beast caught on the hunt, a passtime adored by the Goidels. At the top of the hall the open hearth wafted welcome heat to the grizzled looking MacCarthaí’s.

As the men settled in with the inhabitants of the castle, being the family of the lord, their attenders and warriors, as well as several bards, variously playing alone on the harp, or on the droning uillean[2] pipes, sometimes playing together in a more upbeat style of music.

People of all ages were gathered within, chattering all amongst themselves. Cormac and Dómnall sat at the head of the hall, as was customary, with Dómnall’s immediate family sat close by. Beside Cormac sat only his teenage son Fineen and one of his captains of galloglass[3], a fierce looking man named Captain Ó Catháin.

After small talk had passed and rumours and local gossip had been passed around, before Cormac could bring the issue up himself as intended, Dómnall MacMurrough leaned across, roughly caressing his long dark but greying beard.
“Tell me, Lord MacCarthaí, have you come on behalf of those Ó Callagh’s? Or am I mistaken?” Dómnall inquisited.

“Dómnall, do not confuse me for some messenger, I have come to offer my council and mediation. Long enough have both clans fought, how much more Goidelic blood need be shed, whilst our kinsmen in the west lie under foreign oppression?” Cormac said with an earnest expression.

Chief MacMurrough paused, putting his clay pipe to his lips. “MacCarthaí, I would be wisen yourself. Calvach and his breed, and their treachery caused our downfall in the east. ‘Twasn’t my grandfather who drew his weapon first at Dunhamon.”[4]

“Four decades ago, Dómnall. Are we to be caught up in infighting for another four?” Cormac said, “If so the future of the free Goidelic peoples will be gone like the wind. Is Chief Calvach Ó Callagh not one of the free peoples? His men would take up the sword for this kingdom as hastily as you would.”

Cormac’s words were beginning to seem more rational, he was a gifted negotiator, and unbeknownst to Chief MacMurrough, was sent by King Murchad to end the feud between the Ó Callagh and MacMurrough clans, which for the past three years had seen cattle raids, ambushes and the deaths of several chiefly kinsmen of both clans.

MacMurrough reflected, exhaling a cloud of smoke through his thick moustache “Even in the deepest glens of Corcaigh, to Coróinandowan[5] (‘the crown of the world’) our true kinsmen still live in a constant state of warfare. Those Goidelic knaves who bent the knee to the Gallhoir (‘eastern foreigners’)”

Cormac sharply cut Dómnall off. “Had little choice, MacMurrough. Had the clans of Corcaigh stood together we would’ve put the horde to flight. But because of the war between the Goidels in 301 we were torn up. We didn’t stand a chance. Are we to do the same now? Don’t mistake me, Chief Cathal MacCarval was an impetuous man, he violated Brehon Law[6] by bringing a weapon into the hall of your grandsire Murrough of-the-battleaxe in 301. That was the beginning of the end.”

“Indeed, aye ‘twas.” Chief Dómnall agreed. “MacCarval got his due, felled by an Ridire(sir) Tigernán’s sparth[7], his vassal Ardal Ó Callagh managed to slip away, the sly knave.”

“Only to be killed in a raid months after. All that blood shed, for what? Our greatest chiefs, noble kinsmen and warriors killed in the thousands. Crom willing, we must never repeat the mistake of disunity.”

“I cannot fault your reasoning, Chief MacCarthaí. What is it you propose? There is some sort of proposition, aye? I doubt you would argue the case of the Ó Callagh’s if there wasn’t.” Chief Dómnall said, leaning back in his chair.

“Aye. ‘Tisn’t just out of my own concern. King Murchad himself sent me to mediate. You have a son of suitable age, Donnchad, Chief Ó Callagh has a fair daughter, Honora. The King proposes a marriage, let it be the end of this needless bloodshed. Let these youths bring our peoples together, that no more free Goidelic blood be spilt by the hands of our own.” Chief Cormac said, grabbing one of the handles of the mether[8] on the table before him, gripping it tightly, hoping his advocating for peace would be accepted.

“If it is the will of King Murchad, then so be it. Your words are saturated in truth and your intentions are most noble, Cormac my friend.” Chief Dómnall said slowly nodding his head, realising the idea of ending the bloodshed with the Calvach Ó Callagh was not exactly a bad thing, at least for the time being. As well, it would be a poor move to disobey the wishes of the King.

“Then let us drink to it, Chief Dómnall!” Cormac said with a cheer, holding up his mether. Dómnall grabbed the other handle of the mether and both men stood up.

“Whisht! Wisht ye wild carousers!” Chief Dómnall’s shout echoed through the hall and within moments silence had taken over the hall. “Tonight, we will drink to peace, my kinsmen and women! A marriage has been struck, which hence will bring an end to our warring on the clan of Ó Callagh, for the sake of prosperity in the land of Corca Dubha. Warriors, widows, orphans, my kin- throw down your discretions. For if I, who has lost much, can do it, then for the sake of Crom so can ye. Have I led ye previously by a poor or misguided decision? Have I done nothing but have the greatest interests of my clan?”

The crowd, ever supportive of their beloved chief, began to stand and applause, toast and cheer.

“Then let us drink! Sláinte mhaith, agus Crom Abú!” MacMurrough finished before taking a heroic drink from his mether. And with that, merriment continued and the chiefs began to relax, Cormac delighted that his task of mediation was successful.

Druidism, the White Witches, and Brehon Law
An Draíocht, or in the common tongue, Druidism, is the religion which most Goidels adhere to. Its vast, ancient and intricate roots instilled many great suspicions for good or for ill. From the exterior, it would seem a foreboding system, one by which a person may have to carry a certain metal, or mineral, on one’s person to avoid unwanted spiritual attention whilst travelling by night, or one by which eternal bad luck would be entombed on one who cut down a specific type of tree, and a thousand more such unusual traditions.

These were not the main principles of Druidism, of Crom Cruach, the God of all Gods, High King of the all that is, no, these were merely a few of the endless examples of the traditions passed down which served to keep any god-fearing Goidel in a good and positive state. The Druids, whom give the practice its name, are the men who dedicate their life to the teachings of Crom. There are many orders, such as the holy Brothers of Lira, who purpose their lives to helping the sick and impoverished, even if it puts their lives on the line. Families struck with illness often get stigmatized by the community, and left neglected and ostracized. It is in these awful conditions when to expect the arrival of a brother of Lira, who through their devotion to Crom, will do their utmost to aid those who need it.

Druid’s are a patriarchal fraternity. Whilst being exclusive to men, there are a number of orders which are exclusive to women. An example of which are the Iníon na Lú, or the Daughters of Lugh, who specifically tended to those wounded in battles or fighting of any sort. They also deal with the preparing of the dead in ceremonial fashion. A Banfeasa, or Wise Woman, was not specifically a religious role, but most Goidelic communities had one, always living on the edge of the community, rather than at its heart. These women were sought regularly as healers, knowing every healing and harmful plant and herb in the wood. They knew all the uses of a plant, and the concoctions that were needed for certain ailments. White Witches as they were also known, could in times of war, famine or any other such event in which a community is torn apart, be seen mistakenly by the paranoia of a desperate community as being the cause of their plight. Dark witches, women who in secret cast spells and curses upon others, be it with bad luck for several years, or with sickness or death, were hung upside down if caught. The sight of these witches hanging by their feet nearby rural roads through Goidelic lands are not regular, but not uncommon.

Rarely was a White Witch caught and sentenced under Brehon Law to death. A Brehon, upholder of judgement in Goidelic laws, could easily tell apart a witch, being counseled by a druid for clerical advice. But in many cases the anger and suspicion of a community overcame fair judgement, and manys the innocent Banfeasa fell victim to the mob. Regardless, such events were rare, for these women were held in high regard in each Goidelic community.

The Brehons, of which previously mentioned, are a class of learned men, who study in all fields, but paramountly that of the Brehon Law. These judges are kept by every chief, and who have schools across the Goidelic world, where permitted. Like the Druids, who live in lands occupied by foreigners, are still active even under pain of death. Like the roaming druids of the mountains of Corcaigh, they might travel to areas by night, or converge at secret locations in order to carry out their ceremonies, marriages, and settle disputes, for the Goidels, being fiercely loyal to their traditions, will go to great extents to follow the old way.

Fearghus, the Táiniste, and the White Witch of Ahagowna
Under the system of Tanistry, a Goidelic custom by which an heir to a chiefdom was chosen, rather than falling directly to the eldest son of the late chieftain, a gathering was called by the clan to vote on who the Táiniste, or Tanist, will be. This would be decided on which of the kin group was most capable for the role of chief. Whilst often being more democratically fair, this would also increase the number of claimants to the title of ‘chief of his name’, and would be the cause of countless disputes. In the land of Tírelloch, the Goidelic kingdom which occupied the lands of the western mountains of Corcaigh in the east to the Avonfola river to the west, King Murchad MacElloch Mór presided over many transplanted Goidelic clans, as ‘the Great MacElloch’, a title which in itself ruled over several branches of minor MacElloch clans, such as MacElloch na Gleanna, or MacElloch of the Glens, and MacElloch Roe, or the Red MacElloch’s.

He who would assume such a position would need great leadership skills, as well as the respect of all of his vassals. Fearghus MacElloch, second son of King Murchad but eldest living, his elder brother Murtough, being killed in a cross border raid, had felt as worthy as any of his kinsmen, and so agreed the moot that had gathered a week before and he was chosen as most worthy. Fearghus was in his mid twenties, well capable in a fight and level headed, much more so than his elder brother, which probably was the cause of his death, refusal to give up. There was one last thing Fearghus had to do, after many Druidic ceremonies and equally as much swearing upon the Dinnshancus, the oldest Brehons law handbook, and that last thing was getting the approval of An Oige, the most senior White Witch in the world, she was a women whose age had exceeded a century.

More so than any ceremony Fearghus had to participate in before, this last hurdle had made him the most nervous. Her hermitage was in the wood of Ahagowna, in the territory of the Ó Ruairc’s, west of the MacElloch’s own territory, nearer the great Avonfola river that was fed by springs in Corcaigh, the Perennials, and the Eternals, down through An Gleann Fada, or the Long Glen, meandering to the Black Bay.

After a days ride from his home, with several kinsmen and galloglass bodyguards, and Aongas Óg, or Angus the younger, the long grey bearded Brehon who would be there as witness. Fearghus and his kinsmen found it somewhat ironic that he was known as the younger, for he was a man of over seventy himself. They arrived at the small hovel which was built of simple dry stone walls, it looked near dilapidated all but for light emerging from the cottage's tiny window, and smoke coming from the bent chimney. Fearghus took a few deep breaths as he dismounted his horse, trying not to look too nervous to those around him.

“Let the word of an Oige be the final judgement for she can see what most can not. Do not mistake her earthly vision for blindness, sometimes the blind can see things which we, blessed with vision of this world, are blind to.” Aongus Óg declared in his elderly voice, holding up a copy of the Dinnshancus with a shaky hand.

“My fate is in Crom’s hand, I accept his judgement regardless.” Fearghus said, giving the old Brehon a nod before making his way to the cottage.

Knocking three low knocks upon the door, he heard straight away a reply from inside.

“Tar isteach” an Oige croaked. Come inside.

Opening the door slowly, he saw sitting beside the fire wrapped in layers of plaid smock, pinned together at the upper torso by magnificent golden torc which was the only sign of wealth upon the woman who had looked two hundred years old to Fearghus. As he came in she did not turn to face, but remained facing toward the window.

“Greetings, an Oige, Chrome’s blessings upon thee.” Feaghus said nervously, awkwardly standing in the cottage, the contents of which were enchanting, each object he looked upon raised a hundred questions yet he wanted not to remain long and ask them. Her presence was unsettling, but the atmosphere was not that of an ill host.

“And ‘pon thee, Fearghus mac Murchad, sit down before me, that I may read you.” An Oige said, gently rocking in her finely carved oaken chair. Fearghus said nothing as he said opposite her, across from the fire. “Rest easy, I am too and haven’t the teeth to bite you.” The jest of the old woman brought a chuckle from Fearghus and relaxed him a bit. “Show me your hands.” He did as she said, her old and crooked fingers running along his young palms for a few moments until she had read it. “Do you see it?”

Fearghus looked confusedly down at his hands, nothing at all in particular looked worthy of pointing out. “Um, I don’t, an Oige.”

“Two lines, running parallel up your palm. The ladder. You will be one to aid many, and you have spent your short life doing so already. And here” she continued, repeatedly drawing her finger across one of the lines that went across his palm, “the line of Gobnait, she who brought the bees to this world, to pollinate and nurture all life upon this planet. It is she who made our lands green and fertile, and when her king was attacked by a foreign king, turned her bees into Goidelic warriors, and drove the foreigners back to the lands from whence they came. You were blessed with this, garsún (young man), it seems Crom has deemed you worthy.”

Fearghus breathed a silent sigh of relief. “Fetch me the glass bottle over the mantle.” she asked, he stood up and looked at several such bottles, but choosing the fullest, which was still only half full. The contents were clear as water. “Drink one drink, lest it be said by the other folk that I was not hospitable.”

Once removing the cork, he was nearly knocked to the floor by the pungency that drafted out from the bottle. “Sláinte (good health), an Oige.” Fearghus said and with one deep breath he quickly took a swig, and the violent impact hit the back of his throat and down into the mach below. It took all that was within him to keep it down, though his face gave away the clear revulsion he had towards the liquid. Fearghus couldn’t help but exhale at the recoil he felt after just one drink. Hearing him made an Oige chuckle, her toothless mouth briefly exposed.

“The heartiest poitín[9] you shall e’er come across! Now go, Fearghus mac Murchad, and remember this; keep the peace as you would keep your child, with great delicacy. But like every child, nothing can go perfectly. Know when to use the sword, and when to use the mether. The freedom of the Goidelic people will soon rest on your shoulders, and the strength of that poitín will be a fraction of that needed to hold your own in this world of great sorrow and anguish, of great wars of fire and sword. But Crom has written it upon you, you will be the one to lead.” an Oige said, her two gray misty eyes still staring blankly towards the window.

After kissing the hands of an Oige, Fearghus thanked her before leaving her a present of his own, honey from his own lands, which the toothless elder could easily consume, and she was thankful for it. After leaving the dwelling of an Oige, Fearghus’s head was spinning from the drink he consumed, but the grin on his face told his kinsmen and galloglasses waiting eagerly outside that the news was good. Aongas Óg still kept waiting for a true answer, until a robin redbreast landed on his shoulder.

“So it is.” Aongus Óg, throwing his cloak over his shoulder.

“An Oige has spoken, Crom’s blessed me upon this day!” Fearghus said, mounting his horse, his kinsmen gave a proud hurrah.

“I knew you’d be deemed worthy, Fearghus. Let us return home to your father, with this joyous news.”

And thus they began the long ride home, Fearghus felt the pressure of a hundred men fall from his shoulders.

Notes

[1] cathbarr - a Goidelic style of helm, conical but had a peaked front, and reaching back down to protect the upper spine using additional plates.
[2] uilleann - meaning elbow pipes, are pipes played using an elbow rather than the warpipes or bagpipes, which are lung-powered.
[3] galloglass - a galloglass is a Goidelic type of heavy infantry, used as the core of any Goidelic chiefs army or personal guard. These are also commonly found throughout Sokos as mercenaries.
[4] Massacre at Dunhamon - in what in now western Ryeongse, was an event in 301 when a number of great chiefs of the Corcaigh mountains were called together but ended up in a great deal of bloodshed, when Cathal MacCarval drew a scian[10] and attacked Murrough MacCulla, who’s families had been rivals for many years, this event caused a major war amonst the Goidelic clans within the mountains.
[5] Coróinandowan - the tallest mountain in sokos, literally translating to ‘crown of the world’
[6] Brehon Law -
[7] Sparth - is a Goidelic style of a large fighting battle axe, commonly used among the Goidels.
[8] mether - a mether is a large four sided ceremonial drinking vessel, many very elaborately decorated, one each four sides is a handle.
[9] poitín - a alcoholic spirit with an extreme high percentage of alcohol.
[10] scian - a scian is a Goidelic weapon, a long narrow dagger, easily concealable.

Rolais, Dhorvas, Namalar, Riddenheim, and 5 othersCheysal serulea, Syrduria, Ryeongse, Elotomek, and Eskeland

Post by Juvari suppressed by Uyuti.

Post by Cayden pierce 2 suppressed by Uyuti.

Cayden pierce 2

hi

New Management, Same Business

A month had passed, the new year was around the corner and while things looked normal on externally, internally thing were about to go down , despite getting rid of what seemed the main problem, something foul still lingered in the air, Karl wasn't sure if he had done the right thing, but the people had spoken and it was his duty to listen to them, the cold would be felt all the way to spring, the time of troubles were about to begin for Eskeland.

On the other side of the country, in the city of Helsingstad, things were not looking so good either, the execution of the duke had unleashed a string of problems, a temporary council was set up to manage the situation until the arrival of the new duke. Inside this temporary council were the nobles that not so long ago, participated in the trial of Miroslav, the same ones that he thought were loyal to him, but betrayed him the moment they all set foot on that building and gave their testimonies. They were in the process of keeping everything under control.

Mikhail, the duke's son, who had left years ago his home for the sea and always talked of adventures and riches beyond the imagination awaiting him, despised the idea of inheriting the duchy in its current state, but he knew that eventually everything would catch up to him, just not so soon, now he had to come back, take what was rightfully his and mould it to his ideals, just like any other noble who inherits a title does.

Docked in the port city of Nisaerus was Mikhail's ship, resupplying after a long voyage, he was at the local inn when he receive two letters addressed to him, one of his crewmates came in with them, "Sir, I have to letter here for you, they are important I believe" he handed them over, Mikhail took them "Thank you Kirill, now give 'em here, let me see... one is from... the King eh? The other is from...them, let's see here what they say."

After some careful reading, Mikhail laughed, "It is done then, this is perfect, tell everyone to prepare everything, we are setting sail tomorrow morning, Hear that Vidar? We are going home." Vidar who was sitting in a corner drinking, looked at Mikhail and smiled.

The next day, with everything ready, supplies and other things, Mikhail gave the order to set sail. During the voyage, Mikhail spent most of his time in his cabin, reading some stuff, Vidar was there with him, the two were planning things out for their return and his eventual investiture as the new Duke of Helsingstad, a general overhaul of the duchy, something he wanted to do for a long time, he couldn't stand his father's policies. Mikhail had years ago left the country to avoid his father's intense agenda he wanted to force on him, he wanted to mould him to his appearance, Mikhail wasn't very appreciative of it and swore revenge on him one day.

Days after, he arrived in Tidahamn, ship docked, Mikhail descended and just took a huge breath of air "Ahh, nice to be back home, it smells as rotten as I remember it, and the air seems fouler than ever, I guess it's because of the king's little conquest isn't it Vidar?" Vidar chuckled at his remark while stretching his neck, Mikhail looked in disgust "Ugh look at this, elves, walking around like if they owned the damn place, I know this was Karl's doing, someone should put them in their place, don't you think? But the time will soon come, but for now we got someone to meet and then another and another... It's going to be a busy day..."

Leaving the ship in charge of his 2nd mate, Mikhail and Vidar left for the pub indicated on the letter he was sent. Walking down the streets, Mikhail looked in disgust at every elf that passed by, but not allowing that to bother him much, he arrived at the place, The Golden Dragon Pub and Inn, a contact of his was here to speak with him and bring him up to date with all that had happened in the past years, something he was looking up for so much. Inside he saw him, a man, an old man around his 50s with a long grey beard and a rugged face, an old friend of his and of the family turned rogue, but he none the less was happy to see him.

Mikhail sat on the table where he was and only looked at him directly in the eyes, not saying one word, he took a sip of his ale, Vidar leaned on the wall watching the whole thing, finally the man spoke "Mikhail, happy to have you back, I hope the voyage wasn't to rough.", Mikhail just took another sip, eventually he spoke, "Cut the crap Grigoriy and let's get straight to business"

Grigoriy chuckled "I see you aren't one to forget old feuds, but you're right", he passed Mikhail a pouch full of Sylts, "Here, for the trip back to Helsingstad" Mikhail refused, "I see...Now boy, what you've been waiting to hear, the plan succeeded however I fear the king might be catching up to whatever is happening, Georg has been leading an investigation for days now and everyone's been trying to make sure nothing comes out, time is running out."

Mikhail took out his pocket dagger and started drawing stuff on the table for some time, Grigoriy was left hanging for a while, Mikhail finally spoke after finishing his drawings, "Grigoriy, the time is soon, but first I need to return to my home, to Helsingstad, many follow me already and many more will in the future, the king is clueless like a mule, Karl was always like that and still is, old habits are hard to forget, but I must not waste any more time, I have things to do, but do show up in my court, I bid you farewell Grigoriy."

Mikhail and Vidar left, they headed to the nearby stables, he bought the finest horse they had, for him and Vidar, although Vidar did not care much for the quality, he happily accepted it. Arriving at the palace Mikhail dismounted his horse and nodded to Vidar to remain outside but hidden from any authority that might recognise him. Mikhail went inside. Sometime later he came out, with a document in his hand and a ducal crown in his head, he had been quickly crowned duke by the queen, Raewyn, much to Mikhail's displeasure, but since the king was absent, she had to do it.

Once more, Mikhail mounted his horse and signalled Vidar to get out of his hiding hole. The men left for the gates of the city and from there they took the road to Helsingstad, they would stop in random inns to rest when needed.

Two weeks later, they arrived, seeing the city walls in the horizon, a recognizable silhouette, Mikhail felt nostalgic, but this time in a good way, knowing his torment was out, no more sourness in his mouth every time he thought of his home. Much to his surprise he was greeted by an escort of nobles and some ducal guards, he had no idea who had told them, but he was satisfied either way.

They helped him all the way to the castle, showing him around the city in case he had forgotten how it all looked and where was what. Mikhail didn't mind, he was actually quite happy to be receiving such a treatment from his subjects.

Vidar on the other hand, had to keep a low profile, luckily for him, no one had recognized him yet, perhaps it was because of his change of look, but that was to be seen, there were still people in the city loyal to the king in Tidahamn eager to report him to the loyalist authorities if they ever saw him, so he found it wise to remain that way until they arrived at the castle where he would be safe from any prying eyes.

After what had seemed to be a tour of the city, they arrived at the castle, The Solberg Castle, a big, old, well maintained castle, that has been there since the founding of the country, gifted to the Solberg family for their contribution in the war against the Kostuans. It was the pride and joy of the family.

Inside was Mikhail's mother, Brigitte, who couldn't believe what she was seeing, her son who was back after so many years, she of course knew he had to come back eventually to inherit, but she didn't expect him to be so eager, yet, it wasn't a positive mother-son reunion, Brigitte wasn't happy to see him, disappointment followed by anger could be seen written all over her face she approached him for a dry hug, lacking of any warm emotions, only coldness and bitterness.

She whispered in his ear "I know you sent him to his death", Mikhail let out a bit of a sinister laugh, letting go her, he responded back "He had it coming mother, I just did the gods a favour by accelerating the process"

Brigitte was angry, no, furious, after hearing her son confirm what she thought was the case, she screamed at him in anger, pushed him even, "How could you!? He was your father, he raised you, gave you the best education the country could offer, he even gifted you that ship you so much love, yet you sent him to his death, your sister spent many days crying after hearing of his death and me, you didn't even think of me did you!?"

Mikhail walk passed her, not even saying a word, he put a hand on the ducal throne, feeling it, then he sat on it and that's when he spoke "Mother, mother, oh dear mother, he was in my way, he would never have allowed me to accomplish my plans, the direction he was taking the duchy would have doomed us all, foolish of his really."

Brigitte open her eyes wide in surprise at her son's words, she had no idea how to react "Wha...What? Have you gone mad? What plan? You know what, I'm leaving, I'm moving with your sister."

"Shush mother, the walls have ears...The duchy is just under new management, but its all the same business, you know how it is, but alas you're not going anywhere, no, no, no, I can't risk having you tell the king or anyone for that matter, about this, let's go, to the dungeon with you. Guards! Show Vidar the way to the dungeons, Vidar you know what to do" signalling him, Vidar nodded and together with the guards, they took her away, "Oh and make sure she's comfortable and well fed, all time, ah and Vidar, afterwards you can go anywhere and do whatever you want until the time comes". Brigitte screamed and tried to resist, kicking and flailing her arms around, but it was useless, she could only cry, her own son who she used to love so much, did this to her.

Walking around, he went into his parents chambers, he looked around and began searching for anything of importance, everywhere, behind a painting he found a small wooden chest but it was locked, he wondered if the key he had been carrying since he left would work, he had stolen it from his father, he inserted the key and turned it and the chest opened, inside where some jewellery and letters, letters addressed to people, friends of his father, Mikhail lighted the fireplace and burned them, he wanted none of them to go public if anyone ever found about it.

It was getting late and Mikhail decided to call it early, tomorrow, the first thing he had to do is call his council for a brief meeting, he needed to start getting things under his hands and lay out the foundation for the execution of his plans, just the first step in his grand scheme.

The new day dawned, an Mikhail was already up, setting everything up, he called his messengers to notify the members of his council about the meeting, sometime later they began showing up. Once everyone arrived, Mikhail started the meeting by welcoming everyone "Good morning gentlemen, I'm sure many of you were expecting this meeting to take place after my arrival, but, I must begin it with some bad news for some, I will lay off some of you." he indicated those who he mentioned, "The door is over there, I am extremely sorry it had to come to this, but it had to be done.", Many of those who were kicked out of the council, were not happy about the decision, some even argued with him, telling him they had been part of the council for years and had served the previous duke with extreme loyalty, but Mikhail paid no attention to any of it.

With them gone, Mikhail tried to resume the meeting, but one of the council members interrupted him to ask why he had done that.

He simply answered "Loyalty, they lacked that, they are more loyal to the dead body of my father, than they are to me, a simple minor inconvenience, but they are gone now. I know where your loyalty lies upon, that is why none of you have been kicked out" Some of the council members could be seen muttering among themselves.

Putting his hands down on the table Mikhail spoke "Now that that is out of the way, let us get back to the matter at hand, we need to increase the military, set up spy networks and we must find a way to revamp the local economy. Let's begin with the issue of the military, while the ducal army is pretty decent already, I need them well trained and we need more recruits, but we must make sure the king never get's aware of this." The councillors began whispering among themselves.

"Now comes the issue of setting up some spy networks." Pulling out a couple of maps, he put them on the table "Here, look at this map, underneath Tidahamn and Nyholm, lie the sewers, no one goes there unless necessary, I want to send spies to set camp in those sewers and send me reports of anything of importance."

The councillors looked at Mikhail with suspicion, some looked at each other in confusion, Svend one of the councillors spoke up "Uh, my lord, with all due respect, why do you want to do this, are you plotting against the king and the country, could you please explain to us what's going on?"

Looking at everyone Mikhail answered "But of course, nothing that a little explanation can't solve, let me explain it to all as briefly as possible." He said tapping his fingers on the table "I want the throne of the country, I found out I am its rightful sovereign through the lineage of Sune, Ulfberth's first son, people think he never had a kid and died heirless, but they were wrong for I am his descendant."

Svend raised his eyebrow in curiosity and couldn't stop himself from asking once more another question "But my lord, how did you find that out, as far as I know, nothing was ever written in paper about any supposed kids he could have had, otherwise Alderik would have never inherited."

"But that is where you are wrong Svend." Mikhail pulled out from underneath the table a rock with some inscriptions and from his pocket a paper "See, back then, nothing was written in paper but runes inscribed in rocks and thanks to some help, I have been able to translate it, I wasn't out there sailing the seas for fun, I was looking for this rock, apparently, Sune never wanted a word to come out about his son, he left the country with the rock that someone in the court had carved to show Ulfberth, and hit it far away. Here take a look at this piece of paper, that is where the translation is." He handed over the paper for everyone to see.

After viewing it over, many wondered if it was true, but it seemed to check out, from the lot one spoke up in disbelief "So it is true, you are the true sovereign of the land my lord, no, my king." the man kneeled in reverence, the rest soon followed, not looking forward to remaining on the wrong side should the claims be true.

"My lord" said one of the councillors, "But why increase the military, shouldn't that rock be proof enough of your rightful claim?"

"Yes, but unfortunately I know our beloved king, Karl, won't give up his throne peacefully, so we must be prepared and strike while he is unaware and force a surrender out of him without spilling unnecessary bloodshed, sometimes doing the right things, comes with its downsides..." Answered Mikhail.

"I only ask of all of you, to aid me in this righteous cause and try to convince as many people to join my cause, especially the nobles, they hold most of the power around this parts, they will bring in the much needed help and they'll know how to deal with most of the side problems" Everyone nodded in agreement, many eager to serve their supposed rightful king with pride and joy.

"Good, then let us all get to work on all of this as soon as possible, the false king is already unto me, and he will do everything possible to fill the people's heads with lies and discredit me, I declare this session of the council over." With a face of satisfaction Mikhail he dismissed his councillors on got himself to work on the more complex side of things, mainly bolstering the local economy, for which he already had a plan and already had someone in mind that could help him.

Uyuti, Dhorvas, and Ryeongse

The Staggered Advance

By the light of dozens of candles littered across the command tent of General Virtumal, he pondered the map that represented hundreds of miles of sand, rock and caves that was Qirinai's former northeastern territory, now within the control of First Lord Ssrael and his army of daobem that had continued to defy the slowed and sometimes halted advances of the Empyrial army. Golden coins marked Empyrial assets across the border and well into Ssrael's territory, with tokens marking captured towns along the Sanubati and Ehrenor roads, though many of them had been abandoned previously, either evacuated by the daobem due to a large population of khemakh or scattered to the winds by the initial raids months earlier. Despite the confidence the Empyrial military had in their ability to quickly and efficiently invade and conquer the daobem and First Lord Ssrael's regime, it had proven to be anything but. Because of the Khemakh's knowledge of the landscape, knowledge in warfare as given to them by the institutions of Qirinai's top military leadership, and their willingness to sacrifice themselves in the name of their First Lord, dozens of raids against Empyrial supply lines ensured that cavalry forces that had once been served to counter khemakh frontal assaults against Virtumal's vanguard were now reassigned to secure the lifeblood of the Empyrium's invasion and leading to more casualties for frontline Elven regiments. As he peered over the map in the late hours of the wolf, the aging General rubbed his eyes as exhaustion had began setting in.

Despite the slowed advance, the Elves and Saari would continue marching forth, engaging Daobem skirmishers across the eastern and western flanks and would eventually combine with the Elven musketeers that had marched from the Sanubati line, though they had been beset by constant khemakh skirmishers and their number had been heavily reduced.

Dhorvas, Ryeongse, and Eskeland

The Path of Two Worlds

Sagamara... Across the lands of the Malajara, that name brings an ideal of fairness and openness. Inside its walls lies the largest Dhiana Ghara, the Suhiri Manahila, home to nearly one thousand seekers of truth. Of course, to an Ikori, the truth that is sought is usually not spiritual - they have long since discarded the idea that they have any God's backing. No, to the scholars here, the truth they seek ranges from the artistic ideal of true beauty to the architect's dream of a perfect stone, to the philanthropist's vision of a city that cares for its own, no matter how poor. Of course, these are ideals... Reality is not so kind. But it is the pursuit of these truths that is truly important, not the acquiring of them.

The Suhiri Manahila looms over even the Royal Palace, for who is a raja but another seeker of truth? Certainly, Raja Raman III, the ruler of all Malajara, does not disagree, for over half of the wealth he was accrued has gone to the poor.

In Sagamara, too, are numerous temples, for while the majority of the Ikori here are followers of the Satya Viyana, there are also dragon worshippers and those who follow Qhurataj ka Yu'sholi. The only requirement that the authorities - such as there are - require is that no one religion attempt to belittle or mock another. Debate is allowed; respect is mandatory. Occasionally, though, a debate spirals into argument, and then into open hostility. But the Loka - the most pure followers of the Satya Viyana, do not allow such scenes to happen unanswered. For as much as the Vaisa Shikia tells its followers to remain neutral when the peace is disturbed, the Loka are required to be ready - and to act.

The path to becoming Loka is a long one. Young Ikori, when they are old enough, choose one or more characters to be tattooed around their ears, showing the virtues that they hold most important, or find the most challenging. These virtues are found in the teachings of the Vaisa Hadari. She stated in her Commentary on the Shikia, "The world holds much evil. Therefore, strive diligently to be wise, but wisdom is not the end. Add to your wisdom compassion, for a cold wisdom serves no one but itself. Add to your compassion patience, lest you strike out in anger before assessing the situation. Add to your patience contentment, so your heart does not become bitter towards your brothers. Add to your contentment humility, so that you can praise your brother when he receives good fortune. Add to your humility honesty, so that you can read your heart with open eyes and see the dangers that lie therein. Add to your honesty self-control, so that you can correct those dangers and move closer to purity. Add to self-control courage, so that last of all, when you are sure of yourself, that you can help those that are not." Almost every day, outside the Suhiri Manahila, there is a line of young Ikori with their parents. The children have come to receive their first tattoo. They enter the Dhiana Ghara alone, and their parents receive them back as they exit. The children will now sport a vhaga, or turban, in white as white is the color of remembrance.

However, the streets are simply not a flock of white turbans. The color of ones vhaga has had many interpretations through the years, and as the Satya Viyana encourages each to find his own path to the truth, there is not a hard interpretation of what each color means. Some prestigious houses wear a color specially made for them, while others wear blue for open-mindedness or orange for courage. There are some that do not wear a turban at all, and this is accepted, but those are known not to be on the path.

When an Ikori turns 15, he or she must serve one year in Malajara's defensive force, and those that choose to stay after that year are added into the Burai Mara. During their service, they are given their vach and viran. The vach is an inner garment, allowing the soldier to remain ready even when not fully dressed. The viran is a short, curved blade. It is to be used only for defense, whether of the soldier themselves or of others. Afterward, they retain the knife - and the obligation to protect others. But still, they are not a Loka. Becoming a Loka takes more years of training, more self-reflection, and most of all, self-control. The last step in becoming Loka is to receive one's vara, or pain. It represents the fact that this Ikori has given of himself, has sacrificed, and has become pure by doing so. An unfinished metal bracelet with a hole at each end is put around the wrist of the Loka, and a pair of red-hot tongs are used to bend and melt a chain link through the holes. Even in the hands of the most experienced blacksmith, it is an ordeal. Even so, there are many Loka in Sagamura, and they serve as an effective - if unorganized - police force.

Things in Sagamura are changing, though. No seeker of truth is perfect, and many of the more fortunate families have begun to try to show their fortune by erecting tall, domed towers with elaborate systems of bells and artistic facades. They forget humility. To build these towers, though, more and more workers are sent to mountain quarries where they cut granite and marble, shipping it back down the mountain where it is lifted into the towers. It is there that the largest impetus for change is just about to happen.

----------

Deep in the lush redwood jungle that climbs the mountains north of Sagamara, quarries cut deep into the heart to relieve it of its precious cargo - granite and marble. Sheer rockfaces are quartered and water sluiced into the cuts. Mages slowly work to turn the water to ice, carefully forcing the rock sheets to break off. Many times, they shatter, but often enough, they do not. Outside one of these quarries, though, a new set of eyes is watching. They are joined by more, and they sit, watching silently, until they draw attention, and then with a flurry of movement they vanish into the undergrowth.

Someone is watching the workers.

"It's been three days in a row now, brother." Rajit Dhull, head foreman of the quarry, sits in his cabin, nothing more than a bedroom and lounging area, but his is a bit bigger than the other workers since it must accommodate his assistants. The interior is still lit by lanterns since the shadow of the mountain still darkens the camp. He scowls around the table, making sure he has everyone's attention. "We've had reports every day now of these... watchers. It used to be discountable when it was just once every few months, but now the workers are getting ancy. We can't keep up production when they're looking behind them all the time. We've had five breakages today alone!"

Shadows flicker across the face of the next Ikori to speak. "Tomorrow I will take a group of men out to explore again. We will head up the mountain this time, if we can find a path. Perhaps these watchers live higher up." Udai Sirohi, Rajit's second-in-charge, is annoyed, and for good reason. When these complaints come in, they do not go to Rajit, they come to him. And now, with complaints coming in multiple times a day, it feels like he has not had time to do anything else but field the concerns of pensive workers who worry that they might be attacked at any time.

“Should we not send for some of the Burai?” asks another. This is Inderbir Ola, a younger Ikori, fresh out of his service in the reserves. He still tends to look to the Burai Mara for almost everything, and some of the others feel that he should have stayed in, but his frame is so light that they may not have been able to use him even if he were to go back.

“Not yet,” Rajit says, shaking his head. “We have no idea if they are hostile or just curious, and as the Learnings say, ‘Do not lead with the sword, but with the hand of friendship, for if you fall, the sword will pierce your heart, but the hand will guard your head.’ I’m surprised they did not reach that more rigorously in your time in the Burai, brother Inderbir.”

Inderbir Ola’s nose flushes pink and his whiskers tremble. “Of course they did, brother Rajit. I am only worried. I think you for the reminder.”

Rajit chuckles. “You may still be right, however. Please, return to Sagamara and inform the Burai to stand ready. If we signal with the fire, they should come.”

Inderbir stands and clasps his fist to his chest. “I see you, brother, and obey.” The gesture is more formalistic than usual here in the quarry but, Rajit reminds himself, he is just done with his service after all, and has been given an order.

Rajit turns to Udai. “And you, brother. Take five men. Use two as scouts and send them out before you. If there is an ambush, most of you may still survive. Use two others as runners; they may be able to report back if you cannot.”

Udai Sirohi nods and stands as well, and with a small smirk toward the departing younger Ikori, clasps his fist to his chest as well. “I see you too, Rajit.”

“Get out of here, you scamp!” Rajit laughs, and is left alone in his cabin to contemplate the possibilities of what could happen next.

----------

The near noonday sun suddenly bursts forth from the mountaintop, sinding rays of light streaming through the trees that tower far above the five Ikori moving through the undergrowth of the forest floor. a few minutes ago it had been hard to tell shadows from shadows. Now the light was nearly too bright to see. The two lead Ikori are ten meters apart, perhaps a bit more, scanning the ground ahead for tracks or other signs of inhabitants. So far there’s been nothing. Udai is growing impatient, and with it, irritation begins to seep into his countenance. He scowls darkly. “Damn this infernal forest. Never when I was small did I imagine I would be spending so much of my life chasing non-existent phantoms through trees that are a hundred times bigger than they should be. Now it seems it is all I do.”

Suddenly though, a few moments later, the leftern scout pauses and holds up a flattened hand. Everyone else instinctively pauses as well. Together they scan the area. Up ahead a small copse opens up a window into the sky through the canopy far above, and on the other side, it is just possible to make out a pair of coal black eyes staring out from iridescent purple plumage. There is a flurry of feathers and leaves and they are gone.

“Get after it!” Udai gives the command without any of the usual niceties. There is no time for that now. Everyone runs ahead, and Udai has to force himself to have the presence of mind to stop one of the runners, “You there! head back and give our location. If we don’t return, Rajit will need to know where we were!” He turns his back on the runner without waiting for confirmation and gives pursuit once again.

----------

Inderbir Ola falls flat on his face. His nose strikes a root, and color washes across his vision. He pulls himself to his feet. He has a long way to go yet; he cannot stop now. He rounds another bend in the road as he presses a hand to his snout, checking for blood. Only a small smudge meets his fingers, and he puts it out of his mind with a sniff. He’ll be fine. As the road straightens again, the landscape opens up, and he sees it — Uttara, the northernmost outpost of the Sagamara district just below the horizon. There he’ll be able to rest and send his message via messenger pigeon. If there’s none available, he’ll at least be able to take a load off his feet for an hour or so before continuing on. Only five more miles…

----------

The pursuit through the redwoods is a frantic one, leaping over fallen trees, ducking under others. More than once the Ikori stumble over a root hidden under moss, but the pursuit continues, for their prey does the same. The plumage is hard to make out against the darkness of the forest, but not impossible. Where the sunlight fliters through the trees, the iridescence of the feathers glints, marking the Avernian’s position anew. Then the trees begin to thin and it becomes easier to see. Moss and undergrowth give way to dirt, and the forest clears out entirely, leaving in its place a village. The Avernian cries out an alarm, and several more leap to its defense, spears at the ready.

Udai skids to a halt, as do the two Ikori ahead of him. The remaining runner reverses course without even having to be told. Udai raises his hands over his head, giving the Avernians a clear view of them, showing them he has nothing to threaten them with. He keeps them there, deliberately drawing attention away from his viran. He has no intention to use it, but these birds may not realize that, and miscommunication could be deadly. “I am Udai of Malajara. We do not want to fight you. We simply wish to know why you are watching us!” His voice raised, the words carry easily to the Avernians, but no reply comes. They do talk amongst themselves, but the language is soft and unfamiliar. Finally, one of them, adorned with small golden trinkets, calls out louder. The volume is appreciated, but it does not make the words more intelligible.

Udai shakes his head. He takes a step closer. “Udai,” he says, pointing at himself. He gestures to include the others with him. “Ikori.” He points down the mountain, where if the Avernians have ever traveled they will have seen the city in the distance. “Sagamara.”

At least some of his signs seem to have gotten through to the Avernian chieftain, for he gestures back, first pointing to himself, then to the others. “Yaotl… Tototl.”

Udai offers his hand in greeting. “Peace to you.”

The chieftain — Yaotl — steps forward and takes his hand, then without warning, draws his talon down his hand, drawing blood. Udai jerks his hand back, but Yaotl seems to not notice now. He brings the blood-covered talon to his beak and draws a line of red along his beak, then nods. “Ikniuh axkan.”

Others approach now, but Udai has his viran drawn, and drops into a defensive stance.

Yaotl seems to realize that something is wrong. He’s misread something about the situation, but he’s not sure how. So he waves his tribemates back with a wing and offers his talon to Udai.

There is hesitation there, but slowly, with a few pauses, Udai reaches out and takes his talon. He tries to shake it, but Yaotl twists his head. That’s not right. It is supposed to be blood for blood among friends. If Udai will not do what is proper, Yaotl will. He pierces his own talon with his other, and then very slowly, reaches out to the now-frozen Udai. He presses his talon to his cheek, and then pulls it away, leaving a dripping line of blood on his fur. “Ikniuh axkan.”

Udai repeats it now. “Ikniuh axkan.”

----------

Inderbir Ola staggers into the guardhouse at the Uttara outpost. He collapses, breathing hard. The guards there rush to him, propping him up, and try to inquire what is wrong. The only words Inderbir can manage, though are, “Quarry… monsters…” And then he loses consciousness.

----------

Fortunately, it does not require blood from every Avernian to be spread on each of the Ikori, nor blood from each Ikori for every tribe member. After a few exchanges, it seems settled that they are willing to be peaceful with everyone, and drinks are served, a sort of over-sweet, pungent fruit drink that seems to be mixed with the milk of some as-yet-unseen animal. Udai manages to get it down; one of his companions does not, which causes the Avernians to squawk with laughter, wings shaking in mirth. “Pilli! Pilli! Amo uel tlapia techichitl!” they shriek. The laughter is almost painful to listen to, because when even one begins, nearly the entire tribe joins in, and the air is thick with cackling.

Udai blinks through the taste, and raises the glass. “What is it?” He relies on tone more than the actual words, knowing they do not actually understand. The tone goes up at the end, more than normal. He hopes that the tone curries over. “What is it?”

There’s a short discussion between three of the Avernians before they answer. “Ineukteomeh.” They repeat it slower, just in case it is needed, which it most likely is. “In… euk… te… o… meh.”

Udai repeats it as well. “Ineuk teomeh. It is… interesting.”

The gathering of Ikori and Avernian continues long into the night, and before the tribe and its visitors sleep, there is a modicum of understanding between the two sides. There are still many questions to be answered, and much to be explored, but for now there is the peace that both sides wished for, as peaceful as the moon that shines down from above.

----------

Elsewhere, lower on the mountain, the Burai Mara detachment from Uttara knows nothing of these events. All they know is what was reported by the young Ikori before his incapacitation. Quarry. Monsters. And so the soldiers summoned by Inderbir march up the narrow, winding mountain road, intent on reaching the forest quarry to protect it from the attacking monsters….

Rolais, Uyuti, Dhorvas, Riddenheim, and 2 othersRyeongse, and Eskeland

Cheysal serulea

Song of the Sapphire Crown (Development)
Chapter 10

Dartagnan leaned against the railing of the balcony, looking out over Senara Harbor with the setting sun casting long shadows across the waters of the Golden Bay. Candlelight danced across the stonework from inside the royal apartment chamber and illuminated his outline, but did not cast light on his thoughtful face.

It had been a surreal last few weeks. He and his companions had barely managed to escape from the Depths below Maurincina with their lives, evading creatures and assassins alike. Then him and his wife left to venture into the mountains for the service to Emperor Throkkrin and the coronation of Throki. But with all the gifts that he gave, the bottles of aged wine to each of the attending delegations and the priceless cloaks and enchanted talismans to the leaders of the Concordat, it paled in comparison to what he managed to have gained.

That night of the feast after the funeral service, when all had retired to be ready for the coronation of Throki, Sienna had announced to Dartagnan that she was pregnant with their first child and heir. He stood there stunned and speechless with a great grin on his face before he took Sienna in his arms and embraced his wife, his love, his Queen, and now it seemed to be, his and her child as well. After the Lord’s Rebellion, the restructuring of the realm's political structure into the Sovereign’s Government under the supreme authority of the crown, and the tyranny of King Emilio’s actions still only some years old, by Dartagnan’s own actions the inheritance of the crown was to simply pass to the eldest child regardless of them being a Prince or Princess in contrast to the ways of his ancestors and the unfairness that found his cousin’s from Cheysal. It didn’t matter to Dartagnan whether his heir was a boy or girl, just that his family would continue on, and he had another thing to protect.

Returning to Senara, they’d made the news public to the court and the government that save for anything befalling Sienna or the baby, the succession was secure.

So there he stood alone with his thoughts. But while the sight of the city and the dancing light of the candles brought some comfort, he still felt troubled.

“Dartagnan,” a voice said.

He turned his head and saw Sienna standing there in the archway to the balcony. She was dressed in her evening gown and her hair was pinned up into a bun. Even without makeup and powder, she was still beautiful.

“Is everything alright,” she asked.

“Yes, simply trapped in my own thoughts, Sienna,” Dartagnan responded. He pushed himself off the railing and walked past his wife into their bedchamber. “You and the baby, how I’m both excited but terrified.”

“Terrified that something might happen to us,” she asked as she rubbed her stomach.

“Am I that easy to read,” Dartagnan chuckled. “But yes. This whole ordeal with these Dasheeri assassins really is what I worry about. I feel that with this game we’re playing, it is only a matter of time before I slip up and either I or someone I care for gets hurt… or killed.”

A silence hung in the air of the late evening. But Sienna took Dartagnan’s hand and rubbed the top of it with her thumb.

“I am sure that everything will turn out well in the end, my love,” she smiled. “All will be well…”

The Following Morning

Marcien held a cold rag to his head as Alleia gently dabbed the other side with a clean one over a deep gash across his brow.

“I told you you shouldn’t try to test her,” Dartagnan chuckled with a smug face.

The injured knight pouted and looked away from both Alleia and Dartagnan. “She surprised me. That’s all.”

“I surprised you, is that right,” she asked and pressed on her comrade’s wound, causing a pained grunt to come out of Marcien’s throat. He shot her an unamused glare.

Dartagnan’s smirk turned to an endearing smile looking at the two as they squabbled, and Sienna off to the side trying to stifle a laugh of her own. But the moment quickly faltered when he remembered what business he really needed to attend to and turned around to see Alaion, Kastor, and Prince Darien of Awaeda.

Silently the King walked over to them, cast into the shadow of the yard’s surrounding walkway.

“Prince Darien,” Dartagnan remarked with open arms. “It is a pleasure to see you again, and Sir Alaion, as always.”

“Is Sir Marcien alright,” Alaion asked with a raised brow.

“Oh, yes. He didn’t expect Alleia to dodge as she did, rather to catch him in a blade lock, so his momentum made him fall. His wound looks worse than it is. More dazed than anything.”

“I see, I see…,” the elf mumbled.

“Dartagnan, I arrived just as you asked, despite there being a very important meeting of the Sovereign’s Council later this morning. You must show me what it is, without delay,” Darien said bluntly.

The King simply gave him a look of understanding discomfort. “Yes, of course. Please, follow me.”

Dartagnan led their group up into the estate proper and through its many halls to the library and study. The library of the estate was a grand, long room with its walls lined with shelves that were filled to the brim with books. At the far end opposite of its two entrance doors was a display of large arched windows that let in the golden light of the morning.. Stretching along the center of the library was a long table with some twelve chairs situated at regular, spaced intervals around it, and simple candelabras lined the middle of the table every other space between chairs.

But the table itself was covered in an assortment of books and scrolls from one end all the way to another, and some of the documents appeared to indeed be quite old.

“I woke up to find it on the table with the mirror that me and Sienna use to get ready in the morning,” Dartagnan explained as he walked to the far end of the table. He turned with a flourish of his royal cloak and picked up an open letter with a freshly broken black wax seal. “It is easy enough to read, mind you, but you’re the closest thing to an expert on the Dasheeri lore that we have, Darien, and along with my companion’s counsel, I’d like your advice.”

“Back up for a moment,” Kastor remarked, “you woke up to find it on your table?”

“It isn’t a hard thing to assume that they paid a visit last night while we were asleep, even with the tripled guard watch. Which makes the content of this letter all the more interesting, if they could have simply killed us.”

“Well what does this letter say then,” Kastor asked. He had a deeply troubled look on his face that held elements of anger and impatience.

“I was getting to it, calm down sir Kastor,” Dartagnan said.

The King cleared his throat and looked to the faces of everyone there.

Understand that we are not without mercy or understanding[,” he began, “Senar your Forebear in his invasion of the Third Usurpers learned of our people and our ways and sought to use us to make his conquest swift after the first years. He contacted us and in our Blood Writs that are eternally binding, contracted that in exchange for our help, he would acknowledge the Dasheeri as a free people in the light of day, and that conflict would not wage between the house of his descendents and our Cabal under the most dire of penalties as is our most common of stipulations. We have exacted our right to blood many times when the other party unjustly drew from us. Perhaps in our own hubris however, we neglected a stipulation of time in the Writ with Senar, who so ingrained in his conquests, forgot his obligations and so in turn did his house, so your lack of knowledge to reason of the conflict that now exists between the Servants of the Elders and your House is understood, but as is stipulated, not forgiven. For the death of Eleonore, one of the Dasheer and Servants to the Elder Gods, the Blood Price must be paid in full.

Dartagnan sat the letter back down and looked at the faces of his companions, all of whom shared a similarly glum expression.

“Well that is certainly a, uh, well, much more dire and complicated situation than I would have expected,” Darien remarked as he scratched the back of his head.

“That hardly seems fair though,” Alaion yelled,” how in all the Celestial’s names are you supposed to be accountable for a deal your ancestor made and never bothered to write down for his descendents to make good on?!”’

“I’m sure it’s hardly that simple little Elf Knight,” Marcien chuckled. “Besides, isn’t Elf things full of ancestral obligations and nonsense, and your gods are all ancient heroes and the like?”

Alaion’s eyes narrowed at the Knight. “Don’t talk down to me human,” the Elf replied with an inquisitorial finger pointed at Marcien.

“Gentlemen, please do not argue,” Dartagnan pleaded and rubbed his temples. “Clearly we must find a solution to combat these Dasheeri Cultists. If not, I fear for the future of the Kingdom.”

Through the long course of discussion, the normally loud and forceful Kastor was uncharacteristically quiet, seemingly deep in thought, though no one seemed to pay too much attention to him. Dartagnan and Dartien were busy with Alleia looking over old records and documents detailing the caverns underneath Maurincina, protective armors and weapons, and all sorts of things to help in the fight while Alaion and Marcien continued to stare daggers at one another.

‘-Kastor.”

He was brought out of his thoughts and saw Dartagnan looking at him.

“Hmm,” he asked, “I’m sorry, what was it?”

“I said, did you have anything to add? You’ve been rather quiet.”

“More so than I’ve known you to be my friend,” Alaion noted.

“Ah, well, I was just thinking about this contract they were talking about,” he said. He crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. “Its stipulations say that attacking the other party breaks the Writ and entitles the wronged party to a blood price, and in their own culture the actions of one is the actions of all. Well wouldn’t it be said that the Dasheer technically threw the first punch in this whole thing since that Eleanor woman was behind the assassination plot against the Cheysal-Senar’s and killed King Emilio? So their entire statement that saying you threw the first punch by killing her is completely wrong?”

“Greatest preserve us,” Alleia remarked. “They never knew about her plan.”

“Either that or don’t consider her privy to the Writ,” Marcien suggested.

“Hardly,” Darien interrupted. “As Kastor said, it is the Dasheeri culture that it is the actions of one that is the actions of all. They say it doesn’t matter that we didn’t know about the Writ, so it wouldn’t matter if they knew about Eleanore’s plans or not. One of their people was involved in a plot of hostility against a party privy to their contract and killed someone. The only reasonable course of action would be to treat the Servants and end this before it escalates further.”

“Agreed,” Dartagnan said almost immediately. “I’m sure that they wouldn’t have gone far from the city, or the Castillo for that matter.”

“The only task then is to get into contact with them, but that could very well be quite difficult,” Darien noted.

“We don’t have time for that,” the king continued. “They want my family, but me specifically. Darien, we will go to the session of Government, and at a time that we are at break I will be alone. I’m confident one of their agents will appear, and I will confront them as they seem fond of at least letting their victims know who killed them.”

“Dartagnan, we can’t support this,” Alleia protested, “it is far too dangerous as the King to do such a thing alone.”

“Not only can we not support it, we cannot allow it,” Marcien added.

Dartagnan’s eyes narrowed at all of them, from Marcien to Alleia to Alaion and to Kasto. Then a scowl came across his face as though he were angry. “I do not recall needing any of your permission from you or your counsel for such a decision,” he said.

But a moment soon passed and his face softened to a heartfelt smile.

“But I appreciate the concern nonetheless. However it is something I must do and is the only sure way of less blood being spilled than is necessary. Now then, before myself and Darien depart, there is one other thing that must be done.”

He drew his sword from its scabbard at his waist and pointed to the four warriors before him.

“I would ask each of you to kneel. Please.”

Though each looked perplexed, they in turn stood before him and placed one knee on the ground. To each he came and placed the flat of his blade on the top of their heads and said, “Kastor Immanuel Caleman, the Lion of Hestira. Brave and Honorable. Alaion, son of Prince Darien. Insightful and Loyal. Marcien Berenger, Mountain of the Green Hills. Strong and of sound Conviction. Alleia Ricardia, Sword Dancer of the Coast. Skilled and Knowledgeable. Each of you display the qualities of a true knight, and exemplify some of them as your own being. We have gone on adventures and experienced this hardship together. And it is for that that there are none I would rather depend upon than all of you. By my power as Dartagnan Aurelio Emilio Margeta de Senar, King of Cheysal and Serulea, with the wisdom of Zekerian and the divine grace of the Greatest, I elevate you four as my companions to be Champions and Defenders of the Realm, officially to be by my side as the Knights of the Sapphire Crown. Arise and stand tall.”

The four did as Dartagnan said and he saw bewildered faces.

“A bit grandiose, yes, but well deserved and well overdue,” he said.

“And very unexpected,” Alleia protested. “A bit of forewarning would have been nice.”

“Alleia,” Dartagnan said solemnly, stopping her, “I’m doing this because yes you all deserve it, but also because I’m selfish. If anything does happen, not that anything WILL, but IF, it does, I expect you all to protect Sienna, my child, and the kingdom with your lives.”

“I know I speak for everyone when I say that you have our own solemn vows that we will uphold that charge, King Dartagnan,” Alaion nodded.

“Good, Sir Alaion,” Dartagnan smiled and turned to Darien. “Shall we be off?”

“Yes… of course, your majesty.”

El Palacio de la Corte Soberana, Senara

The place where each assembly of the Sovereign’s Government was a new construction project set halfway along the avenue between the avenue that ran from the Cathedral at the heart of Senara to the Castillo. It was of a newer style compared to classical Alsaran. In fact, its construction was consulted upon by architectes from Hestria, Noren, Garael, and the Opal Tower and intended to be a perfected hybridization that symbolizes King Dartagnan’s declaration of a singular state.

The Palacio was abuzz with activity for the most recent Corte meeting called into session, with nobles and attendants going about their business through its halls. Together, Darien and Dartagnan arrived by carriage and made their way to the chambers of the Sovereign’s Government where they were announced by a loud herald.

“Presenting, his excellency Prince Darien of Noren and Sun Ranas of the Norfelder Compact, and his majesty King Dartagnan Aurelio!”

Though it was a session that proceeded like any other, opened by the Aithérios known simply as the Executor, it was nonetheless a session regarding important things in the Kingdom. New land holding laws, reforming from the old feudal serfdom, allocating funds for all kinds of civil projects that some old minded lords found to be more populist in sentiment. But while there was no shortage of disagreement, they were perhaps more civil than the comparatively smaller meetings of the old Lord’s Assembly prior to the Rebellion.

Like most important and long meetings, there came a need for a recess around midday when all the attending Lord, Ladies, Prelates, and Others had their minds grown tired from the discussions. None more so than King Dartagnan himself. While many of the Lords attempted to converse with him in the recess, he insisted on having the time to himself, and at a moment caught Darien’s worried but understanding eye that could simply say “Go.”

So he disappeared into the depths of the Palicio. Much of it was still under construction, so halls were open to the air and scaffolding had to be walked through carefully, though luckily nothing was particularly fragile, as the likes of statues and art pieces couldn’t possibly be considered to be displayed to the elements and in a section of a building where the public would not be allowed to enter regardless. At one point Dartagnan questioned the lack of birds in this wing of the Palicio, but recalled that the mages from the Opal Tower had generously donated a magical device of their own design that though very few in number, if strategically placed, would harmlessly convince the creatures from venturing near open points in the structure.

Dartagnan was walking along a partially finished hallway when there seemed to be a shift in the air. It was more suppressive and foreboding. But most importantly, it was familiar.

“I was not sure if my killers would simply materialize in front of me, or try and scare me,” he said into the air. “I see it was the latter.”

Dartagnan turned around and saw the visage of one of the Dasheeri Assassin Cultists, but while they still had a dark and terrifying appearance with their eldritch skeleton masks and black wrappings, it seemed more put together. More refined.

“You received our letter and you rushed to come alone. That is admirable,” the assassin said.

The masculine voice was near instantly recognizable as one of the more domineering ones from the Darkness in the Depths beneath Maurincina.

“I take it you are not simply an assassin but one of their leaders then,” Dartagnan asked.

“A simple servant to our Elder Gods and Kings. Those whose light guides us in the void for which we have been lost so long. But I digress.”

The assassin pulled a wicked curved dagger from the rolls of his wrappings and flipped the handle in his hand.

“As per the stipulations of the Blood Writ,” he said, “the Price for the death of one of our Kindred will be repaid.”

“Ah,” Dartagnan exclaimed. “I thought you might lead with that. But before you do kill me. A question.”

He reached into the inside of his overcoat and pulled out a similar but more intricate looking dagger.

“This was Lady Eleanore’s dagger, yes,” he asked the assassin.

The Dasheeri’s head tilted to the side, seemingly in confusion.

“Yes it appears to be,” he replied, “it will be nice to take it back from you and return it to our people once you are dead. If you intend to try and save your life, know we have been trained with these as children, and I am no easy opponent.”

“I do not doubt you friend, and I have no intention of fighting you,” the King replied. “It is simply that… It brings such a painful memory of seeing my father stabbed in the gut with it by that woman, who went to such lengths to see my family crumble. And having to exact Blood price upon the woman who murdered my father.”

The assassin’s hand that held the dagger lowered slightly and his posture straightened, obviously taken aback.

“What,” he asked. In his voice there was an audible sense of disbelief and confusion.

Dartagnan flipped the dagger in his hand and held it up to his face to examine it. He said, “I assume you didn’t know about her plans. You Dasheeri seem to be a secretive lot to be sure. So much so that you never even considered that one of your own would consider keeping secrets from you. What did you think? Did you simply chalk up the deaths of my cousins to simply political machinations? The death of my father to a son murdering him to supllant him? They were the work of one of your people. And as per your own people’s ways, the actions of one ar-”

“You lie,” the assassin said angrily.

“Do not dare to call me a liar,” Dartagnan growled back. “I might be many things. I might have been a terrible son. I might be a terrible friend. I might be a terrible king. I might be a terrible leader. But I am a Knight of Serulea and a believer in the Word of Zekerian and the Greatest. I shall be honest and honorable in my ways, forgiving and considerate to those that can be sympathized. But I will defend what is right and good with my very breath and life. You can call me many things, but a liar is not one.”

With a flick of his wrist, Dartagnan threw Eleanore’s dagger on the ground and it scattered to the Dasheeri leader’s feet.

“You, however, I can call a fool. As per the stipulations of your Blood Writ, I consider the Price paid in full. If you’re willing to apologize and change to join the light of day some time in the future, then I’ll be willing to talk.”

Dartagnan then began to walk past the assassin and refused to look back, but as he walked by, did hear the words.

“Perhaps… you are right…”

Rolais, Uyuti, Dhorvas, Syrduria, and 2 othersRyeongse, and Eskeland

MAP UPDATED (January 18th, 2022)

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Rolais and Uyuti

Post by Conslan suppressed by Uyuti.

Tariglaive

Founding Post for Tariglaive

Looking out over the growing city of Tariglave, Archon Markos Barca sipped his wine. He was told it came from Elvhenam. Good vintage, if a bit bitter. The city had grown over his careful watch. And he was proud. Stacks of parchment cluttered his desk. Trade agreements, new tariff proposals, a request to hire mercenaries for better security of cargo. Everything was growing and now, nations were recognizing them as a power. They were small, only one city, but all nations started out small. Even if they won't admit it. His secretary knocked lightly on the door and let herself in. "The Assembly meeting is about to start," she said. Markos gathered his parchment and nodded to her.

The Assembly was the driving political force behind Tariglaive. It was a place of deliberation. A place where proposals were considered and decided. "Good afternoon everyone," Markos said as he entered, " I hope everyone is well after their travels?" A few nods and some grumbles, but the meeting carried on regardless. "I came to address the Assembly directly. Today we are marking the founding of our new nation. A city of progress and gold. A city that will stand tall in the face of opposition. A city that will lay its mark in the annuals of history as a city build on gold and one that will never tarnish. We have come a long way gentlemen. And as Archon, I am proud to lead this city to a better future."

A chuckle was heard from the Assembly. "Question, were you planning on ever giving that speech to the people of our city?" asked one of the Assembly men. Markos smiled, " I thought I would try it out on you and see what reaction I would get. Looks like I'll be needing to improve it."

That night, the Republic of Targlaive celebrated its founding. A city built on gold and will never tarnish. It was the dream. But a dream it was. For true gold is hard to come by, and tarnish has already set itself into the city itself.

Aelythium, Dhorvas, and Eskeland

Tariglaive Port

The Tariglaivean port was as busy as ever. Melita Hannimara rubbed at her temples. Life was difficult enough after herr father passed away. Now she was dealing with old and outdated traditions. Now she was dealing with merchants who were after her father's business.

The Hannimara family had built a fortune in the early years of Tariglaive, supplying warehouses and security for merchants who wanted to store their cargo. Over time they invested in Silk and Porcelain. Unfortunately, her family had hit hard times and she was the only one able to take over the business, a woman in Tariglaive. While there was mobility for her into business, it was still difficult. A knock came at her door. "Enter," she called.

A short man with a thick beard walked in. He wore fine clothing befitting a merchant. It looked more functional than fashionable. Whites paired with blues. His beard reached his collar and was braided. His head was shaved bare. "Good day Mistress Hannimara," he said. Melita stood, "Jebel, what brings you by?"

"I need to talk to you about your proposal," he explained. Melita straitened herself, "What about it?" Jebel took a seat with a heavy sigh, "The Astarte Trade Union has turned you down. I am sorry."

"Oh those old, sexist bastards!" was the beginning of a long winded rant that lasted for many hours. The bright sunny day at the port has turned into a clouded one filled with bad news.

Post by Janonak suppressed by Rolais.

The new law that the president of Janonak said “equal rights for all” which the wealthy did not agree on and said that ”This is going to kill economic trade with other countries” with king Janonak replying that “YOUR ECONOMIC TRADE BUT NOT THE COUNTRY!”. Although poor people accepted the law and then voting was held to make the saying the law. The wealthy immediately bought votes but then the national court of the brains or (NCB) found the buying and so immediately they were sentenced to 20 years of prison and so only 10% of Janonaks economy fell because according to the law “any wealthy who committed crimes will have their money taken and distributed to the country” And so the votes were continued with the final polls reaching 74.23% agreeing to the law and so it was implemented. With a bang of hammer saying the following words “By the power of justice I court Justice officially implement the law of equality as done!” and so with wealthy people shocked and the poor people joyful they partied men, women, elders, and children were now all equal and as they joyed criminal rates dropped as they were happy and equal. With equal pay, equal rights, and equal freedom. There was no real reason to do a crime. But it made more reserved and less active military personnel as they were low crime rates and so Janonak’s army decreased. And many people used the law as an excuse to blackmail people and so the Janonakian government had to make a choice either to keep the law or remove it. Of course, the law was still accepted as an actual law but was really deeply ratified or checked and finalized and so with the king’s speech “It is finished it is done the peace and equality is finally here”

Brothers and Sisters: Part I

Copost with Riddenheim

Seungjing, Provincial Palace, Main Lounge

Gyeji reclined on a lavish wooden seat, fumbling with soft, slender fingers a scroll detailing provincial affairs and news. She sighed impatiently, eyes darting at the slightest possible noise. Her deep blue hanbok contrasted magnificently with silver embroidered highlights running down the piece’s sleeves and length, culminating with the Seungjing Gi’s clan emblem on her front and back. The beams of the morning sunlight softly piercing the paper windows of the room bounced splendidly off of these highlights, scattering bits of light throughout the empty room. Her hair, braided and twisted in an astral spiral, resembled a small galaxy with jewels and pins as stars against her jet-black locks.

The door to the lounge slid open. Gyeji’s eyes darted immediately before her as she straightened her lax posture into something more befitting of the province’s governess. Inside the lounge came Yang Sohye, having traveled from Malpyeoro considerably north of Seungjing. Even across a few provinces, the variance in Ryeongsean fashion between the two was starkly apparent—at least, to Gyeji. Sohye was dressed in a more rugged yet still elegant hanbok, a simple duo of amber and deep maroon offset by her own highlights of silver. Malpyeoro Yang’s crest emblazoned Sohye’s front as well. What was more interesting was Sohye’s inner garb poking out from underneath her dainty silk dress, a cotton undershirt with hints of leather overwear, the most noticeable being Rolesian leather fingerless gloves poking through the ends of her draping sleeves.

Sohye dropped to the floor with mechanical respect, pressing her sleeved hands to the wooden floor and holding her head only a hairlength above them in a bow of respect. “I offer my greetings, Governess,” Sohye briefly introduced with full honorifics before Gyeji waved her hand of acknowledgement.

“I didn’t know you like to spar,” Gyeji mused as Sohye stood from her bow.

“Governess?” Sohye dumbly responded.

“Please, we’re going to be involved in the diplomatic degradation between two Bantry nations; call me Gyeji, Sohye,” Gyeji smiled. She stood from her seat and glided over to Sohye, taking Sohye’s wrist with a firm hand and wrapping back the sleeve to reveal the glove in its entirety.

Sohye blushed with quiet mortification. “I had little time to change before my arrival.”

Gyeji narrowed her eyes and nodded, continuing to grin. Sohye seemed to be more embarrassed of not changing out of her martial attire rather than wearing it at all. The girl took pride in fighting.

“Is your father here?” Gyeji asked, releasing Sohye’s arm as she circled back around to her seat, picking up her scroll.

“No, Governess Gyeji,” Sohye responded with quiet professionalism, still hanging onto her honorifics. Quite formal, but Gyeji supposed it was better for such a noblewoman to be so uptight. “He manages business in Malpyeoro while I speak for my own matters concerning Seungjing, Ryeongse, and Riddenheim.”

“I can see why.” Gyeji sat and read a bit from her scroll leaving Sohye to stand awkwardly for a while before continuing, “You seem to be a responsible girl. You know what you’re in for, unlike Ah Daeja from Woncheung.”

“You know Daeja?” Sohye probed with perplexity.

“I’d be a fool not to, given our ‘business’ in the north,” Gyeji sighed, putting down her scroll on a table beside her and standing again. She led Sohye to a low table with mats on either side, sitting both herself and her guest. “You prefer tea or coffee?”

“I’m okay, thank you,” Sohye quietly answered.

“Two coffees, please,” Gyeji called outside the lounge. “Anyway,” she resumed, pressing her hands together and leaning forward, studying Sohye’s face. Gyeji supposed she was coming off a bit strong; it was not the best idea to intimidate her partner in Bantry diplomacy. “You’re bright too, if you know Daeja as well.”

Sohye smiled. “We played together as girls.”

“Good to have that connection with her,” Gyeji acknowledged. “It would’ve been nice to play with other girls. I only had my idiot brother,” she chuckled.

Sohye smiled again, to Gyeji’s delight. Despite Gyeji’s attempts to appear professional before the coming task, such exchanged laughter was more calming than what any pipe could bring.

Professional? Gyeji made this “task” seem more than it was: marriage. Getting children. News had recently reached Ryeongse that Daeja was with a child in Volgaro. Given how far the distant country was, Daeja could have already given birth by now. Even such a crude act as sleeping with a man brought weighty consequences for the stability of Volgaro, Riddenheim, and Ryeongse, especially in tandem with each other.

“Daeja went in over her head, if I have anything to say about the matter,” Gyeji clarified, pressing her lips together in distant disapproval. “What she considered her story of fairy-tale romance holds drastic consequences for the balance of power in the Bantry Bay. Even now I’m sure she faces some sort of prejudice. Even if our faces are human rather than dsen or monsu, we’re still a symbol of ‘Tong imperialism’ or ‘Tong puppetry.’ Such sentiments disgust me, but they’re a reality, something we’re going to have to face with what’s before us. Balancing the delicate relationship between Volgaro, Riddenheim, and the other players in the north is something that’s out of our hands directly, but we still can do something to affect it. That’s why we can’t mess this up. If Daeja really is with a child, she must know what consequences that brings. Anything we do yields consequences. You must know that.”

Sohye said nothing, taking it all in with apprehension, with fear. Gyeji sighed a bit. Perhaps she was coming off a bit strong and blunt.

“Are you scared at all?” Gyeji asked, more softly and dropping her earlier show of power.

“A bit,” Sohye blushed. “I wonder if my suitor finds me acceptable.”

“You mean the looks bit or the addiction to warfare bit?” Gyeji teased.

Sohye was silent, hints of tears beginning to well in her large, dark eyes.

Gyeji sighed, extending her hands for Sohye to take them, which she did. Gyeji rubbed the backs of Sohye’s hands with her thumbs in a sisterly way, taking Sohye’s eyes into her own as well. “For the first part, you’re a beautiful young woman, and any man who has a problem with how you look has no sense or justice. Secondly, from what I hear, Riddenheim’s a hellishly freezing land of brutish warriors. Surely you’ll have more luck with men accepting your expertise in warfare there.”

Sohye smiled back her tears and nodded in gratitude. “And you?” Sohye spoke up after swallowing her fears and insecurities down enough.

“Oh, I’m terrified,” Gyeji answered nonchalantly. “My suitor better have good fashion taste. I lie awake at nights dreading how those less fortunate than us in Ryeongse dress, what they consider acceptable to put on their miserable little bodies. He also better speak Gogwihan-eo, or be willing to. He’s marrying into my family, not the other way around. The only thing worse than a man with horrid fashion sense is one who’s also stupid.”

Sohye chuckled a bit, more at ease now thanks to Gyeji’s banter.

“What kind of languages can you speak, Sohye?” Gyeji questioned, while on the subject. “You’ll need to be a polyglot for marriage afar.”

“I can speak Uyut, Segh, and Kostuan fluently,” Sohye answered. “I studied for three years each in Uyuti and Rolais.”

“Is that so?” Gyeji mused, impressed. “I can only manage a handful of phrases in Kostuan; if the boy wants to have me so bad, he’s going to have to learn my tongue.” She sighed. “What I’m a little more frightened of is messing up. I’m sure you and Daeja have a much bigger task ahead than me, but despite how much war is in our blood as Ryeongseans, it’s not great.”

Sohye nodded in grim agreement. A servant slid open the door to the lounge, bowing slightly while placing the tray of coffee, in small jade cups, on the table and leaving. Gyeji picked up her cup and plate and sipped with calm apprehension. “Perhaps tea was the wiser move,” Gyeji licked her lips. “I don’t need more cause for jitteriness.”

Soyhe picked up the other cup and plate and sipped as well. The drink’s sharp bitterness caused Sohye’s lips to shrink in response. “Better than having too little nerves rattled,” Sohye supposed. Still, perhaps calm was the wiser attitude to embody. Good thing that dozens of sleepless nights in her studies abroad and training nullified the effects of the coffee even today. From how Gyeji’s makeup flawlessly masked bagged eyes still perceivable through her cosmetic skills, Gyeji had a similar familiarity with—and resistance to—coffee’s curse.

The door slid open once more. A palace attendant bowed at the two noblewoman before announcing, “The delegation from Riddenheim has arrived and is waiting in the provincial hall.”

{{==========}}

Along a sun blasted and dust covered path a column of eighteen riders passed steadily. At the rear of the column trundled along a heavy wooden carriage, its sides gilded with copious amounts of gold and silver. The riders kept a constant pace, curtly shouting to any peasants or travellers before them to make way in the language of these lands, their broken pronunciation and heavy accents limiting all interactions. Those who refused or shouted out their anger quickly grew silent when the men flashed their swords and gripped their hilts.

At the head of the column rode a giant of a man, his golden hair trimmed short to his scalp while his beard grew long and free. Over his body he wore a padded aketon, finely embroidered with gold and silver colored lengths of silk, the full majesty of their beauty was hidden by a layer of chainmail, itself covered by a well worn cuirass, its once elegant beauty hidden by layers of dents and cuts into the steel. His name was Erich Kassal, second son to the Grand Prince of Marchnau, Romarich Kassal.

The riders were his, and were under his command as a mercenary Captain. He had handpicked these men to serve as a sort of honor guard, in truth he chose these men because he had known each of them to be lighthearted and cheerful, and made long journeys easier to bear. Only two among this procession did not answer directly to Erich, the first being an elderly priest named Alexi Korozov the men brought along for spiritual advice and to pursue the vain hope of finally outdrinking him and his legendary liver, their hopes of southern drink finally beating him being dashed on the first night they had entered Ryeongse. The second man was the only one of their party who could even attempt to compete with the priest, Erich’s own brother Leo Kassal.

Leo was the youngest son of their father. As the third son he was not expected to ever inherit, and thus spent his days wandering between the many taverns and alehouses of Marchnau. He was dressed far more extravagantly than his brother, His silk kaftan was embroidered with real lengths of gold, the pattern they formed being extremely intricate and reminiscent of the patterns found on Iskrenite churches.

The party rode on steadily, keeping a quick and constant pace through the countryside, the men chatting between themselves about every topic their bored minds could conjure, from the weather being a curse laid upon them to the quality of the native wine, to the people themselves and their odd customs. Erich did not contribute or even listen to the small talk of his men, instead he had spent his day mumbling to himself in a tongue he could barely comprehend.

“It is an honor and a… a…” Erich spoke in broken Gogwihan-Eo, before angrily shouting in his native Masenov, “Greatest damn it all! I can’t understand a damned word in this infernal tongue!” A short laugh erupted from the mouth of his brother, who rode beside him. Leo called out in much more complete Gogwihan-Eo, and his voice carried a mocking tone,

“It is an honor and a delight to make your acquaintance, noble lady.” While his pronunciation was much more complete than his brothers, his thick accent still bled through in every word he spoke. He reverted back to their native language to insult Erich, “It’s been four months since father first proposed the offer of marriage, three since it was accepted, one since the final arrangements were made and we’ve spent two weeks traveling from Marchnau, yet you’ve only begun to practice your Gogwihan-Eo for these past four days.” Erich opened his mouth to speak but instead turned away from Leo, who smirked in victory. He quickly rallied his bruised ego and spoke again,

“I’m not so much a savant for these things as you are.” He smiled then, and rode close to his brother as he responded in a jovial tone, “You surprise me Leo. Here you mock me, yet after last night at that tavern, I expected you to be holed up in the carriage, groaning and puking out your guts!” He laughed and Leo recoiled, his hand darting to his temple as he rubbed it and spoke quickly,

“Not so loud, damn you. It’s bad enough the sun taunts me with no clouds in sight, but I don’t need you to shout and pretend you’re funny.” He massaged his forehead for several moments before speaking again, “I’d rather we finish the ride in silence. I’ve much to think about.” They rode for several more yards before Erirch shouted curtly, his joking tone faded from his voice,

“Enough with your bluster Leo, speak honest to me. Are you afraid?” Leo eyed his brother with a pained expression before turning to the road the precious few miles they still had to ride. He was silent for a moment, before he inhaled deeply and spoke,

“Yes damn it, of course I’m afraid. I’m leaving everything I’ve ever known in this life for a woman I’ve never met, whose culture and way of life is completely alien to me. Wouldn’t you be afraid if you were in my position?” Erich rode his horse parallel to his brother and placed his hand on his shoulder, speaking in a reassuring voice,

“Yes, I believe I would be. But look on the positive side. Your new bride is the governor of these lands, so you’ll never want for wealth or luxuries, and she’s a beauty, if the portraits they’ve sent are anything to go by.” He gave his brother a playful punch on his arm, but his strike was too powerful and left Leo rubbing his shoulder. Erich continued, his voice somber,

“And if that’s not good enough for you, you’ll finally be rid of Aimar and father.” Now it was Leo’s turn to laugh, and he turned to Erich and smiled genuinely as he spoke,

“Ah, now that I shall truly be glad for!” They laughed together as they crested a hill and saw the city of Seungjing sprawling beneath them. Leo sighed deeply before mumbling, “Let us proceed then.” Erich nodded solemnly before cocking his head back to their retinue and shouting,

“We’re almost there lads! Soon we’ll be sleeping in actual beds and drinking the finest wine this pitiful nation has to offer!” A cheer rose among the travel weary riders, and they rode the last leg of the journey eagerly and swiftly. Before formally entering the palace, both brothers took a moment to enter the carriage, where apart from the various valuable gifts that would be a part of a dowry were stored, was the brothers wardrobes. Leo merely changed into a near identical kaftan as the one he already wore, though this one was free of the dust of the trail. Erich abandoned his armor and put on his own kaftan, much less extravagant than his brothers, as it only depicted their house’s crest. He picked up his bearskin cloak and reminisced about the hunt he had organized with several minor nobles from Marchnau that had awarded him with such a fine prize and pondered about wearing it. Leo deduced what his brother was thinking and spoke as he opened the door to leave,

“No furs, I would think. They’re quite unfashionable around here.” Erich nodded before tossing down his cape and exiting after his brother. At the gate was a contingent of men and servants, who led the brothers into the palace, while others led their retinue towards stables for the horses and accommodations for themselves.

{{==========}}

Seungjing, Provincial Palace, Main Hall

If the growing glow of the sun piercing through the paper windows indicated anything, noon was approaching. Even with both the winter’s chill and the shade of the hall's roofs, Sohye felt on the edge of breaking out into a sweat. She noiselessly cleared her throat and began to slowly inhale through her nostrils and out through pressed lips, just as her father had taught her for years on end. Although she was mainly taught such breathing techniques to prepare for duels, a task like meeting her betrothed was close enough.

With little time to change before the guests’ arrival, signaled by faint chatter outside the palace doors growing louder and louder, Sohye had just barely managed to wear a delicately embroidered outer coat with the Malpyeoro Yang’s family crest emblazoned on the back. Its trailing sleeves hid the Rolesian fingerless combat gloves she still had on. Her hair was hastily pinned into place, hideous to a lady’s eyes but, thankfully, clandestine to a man’s.

Sohye stood next to Gyeji, who was sitting on her modest yet still lavishly carved and polished wooden throne. It was remarkable to Sohye how quickly Gyeji could put on different attitudes so quickly, almost as if they were more of a piece of clothing than the hanbok she had on. In addition to her dark blue hanbok, Gyeji also had an outer coat with sleeves trailing past her hands, which she tucked neatly into her gown’s many layers. Her hair was even more stellar than before, as if that spiraling galaxy managed to only grow in size. Through it all, however, what caught Sohye’s gaze the most was Gyeji’s own, a steely, deeply curious and slightly condescending peer ahead at the unmoving gates.

Unmoved until now.

The palace’s doors swung open with groaning speed, thudding gently in place as Sohye and Gyeji, at the end of the hall, and everything in between, was bathed in the wintry sunlight of Eastern Sokos. The sunlight draped across the long halls, past several black granite pillars, shadows belonging to the palace guards, a palace attendant, and the Riddenheimic party.

“Announcing for His Majesty’s Provincial Governess Gi Gyeji and Lady Yang Sohye, brothers Erich and Leo Kassal of Riddenheim!” the court attendant heralded, standing aside and bowing at the waist before turning and standing in waiting at the walls of the chamber. The thin column of palace guards lined the columns leading to the provincial throne, subtly gesturing for the Kassal brothers to, as hastily instructed before entering the hall, go, stop halfway to the throne, and bow as they wished.

Both brothers bowed in the traditional Riddenheimic way, they took their right fists and held them over their hearts before bowing deeply then rising. Erich made to speak but a quick jab to the chest from Leo silenced him, and the two waited for their host to speak.

As the two Riddenheimers approached and bowed, Sohye took in each carefully, studying her betrothed, Erich, under more scrutiny. The man, in stark contrast to his more formal kaftan, appeared gruff and stoic, like a bear, with a bearded mouth that looked like it housed mighty roars. His clean-shaven head, almost reflecting the winter’s sunlight just as the doors behind the brothers began to close, made him more intimidating. Years of warfare and experience lay active underneath his skin. Sohye’s fear only increased from before, seeing a big a man as Erich for the first time, not to mention him as her future husband, but she also felt at peace. War was a language understood by all, and Sohye could read the faces of those skilled in it without them saying a single word. She appreciated, even desired this within Erich; not only did he seem a good fighter, but he seemed to herald a greater future in store for Sohye in far-off Riddenheim.

Gyeji also studied the brothers carefully, glancing instantly between the older and younger. Both their kaftans were of high quality, relative to Riddenheim. As plain as they were, they were well-cared for. Caring for one’s clothes also signals caring for others, Gyeji seemed to notice after years of self-proclaimed fashion connoisseurship. Still, even with Leo’s relatively balder face, both seemed unkempt, even savage. Long voyages yielded little excuse for caring for one’s face. Perhaps Gyeji was jumping to conclusions, yet again.

“At ease,” Gyeji’s voice, still speaking in Gogwihan-eo, pierced softly yet powerfully throughout the chamber. “Welcome to Seungjing. I hope you have enjoyed your visit so far. I assume you already know who we ladies are, and we know all about you two. Your… friends to the back, I did not anticipate but appreciate nonetheless.” A palace attendant to Gyeji’s side, opposite to Sohye, repeated Gyeji’s words in adept Kostuan.

Sohye, meanwhile, kept quiet.

Erich eyed the two women closely. He held his gaze on his betrothed Sohye for a moment longer before nervously breaking the state and looking in between them, disguising his face in an expression of stoicism. Behind his mask he panicked as his worst fears were confirmed. She was beautiful. Erich had faced down hordes of barbarians and sorcerers, terrible berserkers who had screamed to their dread gods for his head, and he faced them down with nary a sweat broken in fear. But no amount of battles or slain foes could prepare him for this new battle, a battle for the affections of a woman.

Leo maintained a much more genuine smile as he made contact with Gyeji. He did not break his gaze as he raised his voice and spoke to the whole hall,

“It is an honor and a privilege to finally meet you in person, noble ladies. I believe I speak for both my brother and myself when I say the tales of your beauty could not hope to match with meeting you face to face.” Flattery was an art Leo was all too skilled in, and he smiled as he nudged Erich again, the elder brother turning to one of their retainers in the grand doorway, the retainer leading three men into the hall, each of them carrying large chests.

Erich turned back to Leo and nodded slightly to his brother, before facing straight again and stealing another glance at Sohye. Leo gestured and the three courtiers placed the chests on the floor and opened them, revealing their continents. Gold and jewels just Barry contained by the heavy wood of the chest spilled forth and fell heavily on the floor, loud thuds being proof of their authenticity. Leo again gestured and a courtier ran up with two identical bracelets, made of gold and engraved with dozens upon dozens of diamonds, the centerpiece of the pieces being a massive blue sapphire. Leo passed one bracelet off to Erich and spoke again to their betrothed,

“These treasures we give freely to you, though they pale in comparison to your own beauty.”

Sohye met Erich’s gaze, glancing towards the treasure, at the jewelry each brother held, and back to Erich.

Gyeji chuckled, “Quite the dowry you’ve brought us. It feels like some lost Tylosian treasure you have dug up and presented.” She eyed each bracelet, studying them with narrowed eyes. “Certainly managed to catch my attention. Plus, you seem to have a way with words. Useful.” She smiled. “I accept your dowry.”

Sohye bowed at her waist. “I accept your dowry as well,” she added softly, in frighteningly adept Rolesian Kostuan.

She stood from her throne, descending the platform on which it stood. She came eye to eye (or, eye to shoulder, at the Riddenheimers’ size) with Leo, beckoning Sohye to stand before Erich. Sohye did so, keeping her eyes modestly glued to the floor. “Sohye’s father had already given his blessing for her to be married, but he does wish to see you, the bigger one, with Sohye before you head off to Riddenheim. So, let’s do this: Sohye and Erich, you two set off to Malpyeoro by the end of the day. Get Yang Donman’s final blessing before you continue to Riddenheim through Tírelloch. As for me and Leo, the marriage will be arranged in Seungjing within the season.”

Before anyone could interject, and while the translator was still trailing her statement in Kostuan, Gyeji summoned a court attendant. “Arrange for these two a palanquin to Malpyeoro. Form an entourage with the Riddenheimers returning to their homeland,” she ordered with a hopeful smile, grabbing Sohye’s and Erich’s hands and putting them together. “Let’s not waste any time; the sooner both pairs are married,” Gyeji raised her eyebrows, “the better.”

========

Seungjing, City Limits

The sun reached the fringes of the mountains to the west, dipping the sky into a rich, gold shade. The wintry gales swept idly at the towering, crimson-red city gates of Seungjing, its pointed green shingles still wet with retreating snow.

Gyeji patted down Sohye’s unruly hair, taking a finger to her tongue to line some rebellious strands in place. Affixing some jewels (from her personal collection, at that) onto Sohye’s round head, Gyeji then propped up Sohye’s clothes, tightening her hanbok’s many ribbons and decorative sashes as well as straightening crumples on the hanbok’s outer coat. To Gyeji’s joy, Sohye had managed to find time to fully dress out of her combat clothing, purely in aristocratic garb now.

Sohye stood still, restraining her impatience as Gyeji’s micromanaging came to a close. She took a brief glance at the Kassal brothers, standing some horselengths away talking amongst themselves.

“You have to take more care of your clothes and your look, you know,” Gyeji fussed melodramatically. “These folk have weird fashion. Intriguing, but weird. You’re the sole representative of Ryeongse’s culture in Riddenheim, fashion and all.”

“I understand, Sister,” Sohye caught herself from nodding; Gyeji’s hands still danced about her hair.

Gyeji paused, retreating her hands.

Sohye’s eyes widened. “I-I deeply apologize if that was improper or offensive!” she stammered panickingly, breaking from her quiet professionalism. “Please forgive me!”

Gyeji chortled, loud enough to briefly interrupt and catch the gaze of both Kassal brothers. “You’re so funny, you know that?”

Sohye bit her lip shut, blushing horrendously. “I-it’s just that this… will be the last time I will be seeing you.” Resuming that quietness again, Sohye began to wring her hands together in apprehension. “Although we have not known each other for as long as I would have liked, it was nice nonetheless…”

“I agree, Sister,” Gyeji smiled. She reached over and gave Sohye a hug.

Sohye began to well up a bit. “I don’t have any siblings. Thank you for being mine.”

“I wish I didn’t have any siblings,” Gyeji mused. “Brothers can be something else. It’s nice to have a younger sister for a change, though.” Still in their embrace, Gyeji sighed. “Try not to kill your betrothed in a duel,” she began to list. “Don’t speak unless spoken to. Please don’t always keep on those hideous gloves; you’ll catch eyes. And—”

“I understand, Sister,” Sohye responded calmly, trying not to show signs of asphyxiation from Gyeji’s hold.

“Don’t interrupt me; this last one’s important,” Gyeji snapped. “And remember you represent Ryeongse in Riddenheim. Act as Ryeongse would act: polite, honorable, humble, yet fiercely determined, stubborn, and valiant. Try not to start a scandal.”

“I understand, Sister,” Sohye repeated. Gyeji let Sohye go and squeezed her cheeks, to Sohye’s mild chagrin.

The brothers spoke in their native Masenov as the retainers and guards around them made the final preparations for the journey to Malpyeoro, and then Riddenheim beyond.

“..And you’ll see to it that my personal belongings are brought safely over the Eternals?” Leo asked idly.

“Aye, I’ll see it done personally.” Erich responded. Leo nodded, then moved to break away from his brother before the elder grabbed him by the arm and spoke again, “Hold on now, I’ve something to say. I never got the chance to say this back home, but out of all three of us, you’re the only one with a scholar's mind and the ambition to make a difference in this world. Back home you were stifled by father, but here you have a chance. Don't waste it.” Leo chuckled before replying,

“I’ll keep that in mind, though I wonder how much, if any, influence I may hold. In any event, good luck, may your marriage prosper and try not to get your head caved in by a barbarians ax.” Erich laughed deeply as both brothers embraced for several moments, and parted with Leo beginning to recite an old Iskrenite departure saying,

“May Iskren guide you…” “And may The Greatest keep you.” Erich finished, and the brothers smiled at each other one last time before departing.

Sohye turned her head as the brothers said their goodbyes. She bowed to Gyeji at the waist. “Stay in peace, Sister,” she softly bade.

“Go in peace, Sister,” Gyeji responded with a solemn half-smile. Sohye nodded in acknowledgement and walked towards Erich, passing Leo as he approached Gyeji. Taking Erich’s outstretched hand, Sohye climbed into the spacious palanquin. The polished wooden doors closed with a click, signaling dsen bearers to gently hoist the vessel on their shoulders. The palanquin paced away, to the east, towards the setting sun, with its Riddenheimic party and mixed Ryeongsean cavalry escorts riding at its pace.

“And now everything really starts,” Gyeji whispered to herself, winking insinuatingly at a flustered Leo.

Rolais, Uyuti, Riddenheim, Syrduria, and 1 otherEskeland

Kohlenbirke

Bloodlines - Part 1
Copost with Volgaro

Gabriele von Waling held still, back resting on a small spruce. The forest was still - or so it would seem to someone not familiar with it. For Gabriele, though, it was alive with sound and movement. Gustav, Gabriele’s father, had insisted that she knew the land as well as her eventual subjects did, and so more days than not she’d followed his Huntsman out into the woods, learning everything she could about tracking game, how to handle a bow, and most importantly, patience. And it was patience that had become so important now, with her cousin sitting on the throne in the castle to the south. She’d have her day with Greta soon enough, but right now was not the time to strike. She needed allies.

There was a sudden flutter of movement to her right near the ground, just as soon hidden again. Gabriele scanned the brush, searching for the source of it. Woodland animals were hard to spot, for they knew how to blend in with their environment. For a good eye, though, it was possible to pick them out. And there it was. The pear shape of a pheasant, holding still. The color was invisible, but the shape was unmistakable. She raised her bow and released.

The flutter became a burst of movement as the bird struggled against its sudden assailant, but death was inevitable now. Gabriele walked six strides toward it and grabbed it by its neck. It struggled until she snapped its neck with a sudden jerk. She’d eat well tonight.

The quiet time out in the forest let her think. As she prepared the pheasant and ate it under the darkening sky, she made up her mind. To the north was a large kingdom. Volgaro. She knew they’d come this far south before. Rumor had it that they’d gone even further, so she should be able to seek ties with them.

She separated the blood into a small iron cup, and cut a line up the nearest tree. Shoving a knife up into the cut, she went back to her bird and finished the meal. As she ate, she drew the knife out from the tree. A thin sap covered the tip, and she wiped the knife off into the metal cup, then stirred.

She lay back against the tree again after she ate and pulled out her oilskin pouch. She produced a sheaf of papers, and cut a feather for a quill. By this time her earlier mixture had settled, and she dipped her quill to write. In orange ink that would be brown tomorrow, she wrote. It was a formal letter, if an unskilled one. She knew nothing of the courtly graces or etiquette that her family once would have had before their departure from Alvaringen.

To the Noble Houses of Volgar,

I am Gabriele, heir to the Duchy of Kohlenbirke, east of the Imperial Highway to your south. I and my people seek your aid. For years now, we have been ruled by a pretender. We have a strong army, but only of equal size to the pretender. My people are Sudenmen like many of yours, and we ask that our bond in blood be honored. However, as you can see, I am plain-spoken, and cannot assume to be of the same station as you. Kohlenbirke is rich in resources. We can pay for aid.

Blood prevails,
Gabriele Von Waling.

She tied the letter back up into her pouch, and laid back to sleep. In the morning she would return to Kohlenbirke and send a rider north with the message.

__________

Two Weeks Later

Myrali, Lord Marshal’s chamber.

Drovij’s sat in his chamber alone lost in thought. He looked at a large map of Sokos that lay across a table, the pieces from his chess board lay to the side of it. He grabbed two pieces, a knight and pawn moving it to the lands of Duke Vaclou within Dhorvas. He then placed three knights and three pawns on the border of Volgaro and Dhorvas. He continued placing pieces till he stood for a second looking over the map, visions of battle filled his head tactics against a foe he had never seen only heard about from hius scouts within the Lizard Lands. His tired eyes snapped open as a knock came from his chamber door.

The Lord Marshal opened the door to a servant holding the message from Kohlenbirke, he sighed, grabbing his pipe, filling and lighting it before reading the letter.

“My Lord..” the servant had begun to speak before Drovij held his hand up to silence him. “Summon the Volkiban from their chambers.” he said bluntly.

“But it’s late My Lord, should you not wait for the Mor—”

“Do as I say or I shall have you flogged!” Drovij barked, causing the servant to jump before running to do as he said.

Within the hour the Lords and Ladies of the Volkiban had gathered, some with scowls and others with confusion covering their visage. Rurik of House Drovic was the first to speak. “Why have you called us here at this hour Drovij?!”

Another from the opposite side of the chamber, Count Albin Brun spoke softly in stark contrast to the Volgar’s booming voice. “For once i must agree with the Chief Drovic, why have you called us here old friend?”

Drovij handed the letter to a servant commanding him to pass it around the room before he spoke. “Just like my original purpose for calling you all here we have been called upon to aid another, but this time one of our brethren!”

“One of your brethren!” Chief Marov yelled from the left causing the usual bickering within the chamber before Drovij slammed a book against the stone wall, startling the chamber into silence. “Now I am usually not the one handling the lot of you but the Reichsfrau put me in charge till she returns, with that being said the Reichsfrau is both Volgar and Sudenmen!’ he said looking to each side of the chamber as he spoke about their respective cultures. “But as sons and daughters of the saints we owe it to our ancestors to at least hear the girl out!”

A voice called out from behind Rurik. “I’ll go,” he said, stepping forward.

Rurik scoffed “Olaf you would tarnish our name in such a way,” he said, scowling at his son. Olaf looked back to his father “The only one shaming our house and the Volgar people is you. This Gabriele calls for our aid what does it hurt to at least go hear her plea, we are warriors and this is a war waiting to be fought, but you all would rather sit and collect the ghost of victory instead of the real thing.”

Gasps were heard throughout the hall before Chief Marov burst into laughter. “I like you, boy! I vote we send this one and a group down to meet the lass and see what she has to bring to the table fully.” he said with a chuckle.

Drovij sighed in relief. “All in favor?”

All of the Sudenmen raised their hands followed by Chief Marov,Chief Vlasti, and High Chief Vadik

“All opposed?”

Rurik, Chieftess Radislav, and Chief Fausti raised their hands.

“Well that decides that then. Olaf you will be able to gather a group of men yourself; I will also be sending a group of guards with you just in case.” Drovij said, lighting his pipe once more. “Good luck.”

“Thank you, Lord Marshal.” Olaf said walking past his father without a word.

In the following weeks Olaf would gather a group of twenty men - counting the guards Drovij had given him - and began traveling south towards Kohlenbirke.

__________

Five weeks since the letter…

The mud was almost thick enough to pull Gabriele’s boots right off her feet. It had been raining for three days now, and although she was wearing her least-soaked coat - mostly dried out by the fire in her room last night - there was still enough wet left in it that the coat failed to cut the edge of the chill that came with the weather. She squelched along in front of her men, talking to each in turn, giving a little encouragement as they sat huddled around the bonfire. The night before, they’d broken up an attempted raid on Lenefield. A few crops had been burnt, but they’d run the intruders off without much of a problem. Where one raid happened though, there would be others. She had to at least try to make sure her men were ready for another round.

Before she could get very far with her task though, a rider galloped in along the road back to Kohlenbirke. He pulled his horse up to a stop when he saw her, mud flecks spattering her boots. “My lady! There’s a group of maybe 20 men coming from the north!”

Was it a response to my letter? Or is this some new worry to contend with? Gabriele kept her thoughts to herself as she sent a man for her horse.

It was raining in Kohlenbirke too, when the riders from the north arrived. The last few miles had been across hillsides and trails that looked like they’d only been used once in a decade, if that. But just as Kohlenbirke came into sight over the river, they’d been able to rejoin a decent road, if a small one. Several fishing boats could be seen mid-river, ignoring the rain falling in pursuit of their livelihood. Beyond the river - over a low, sturdy, stone bridge - stood the town proper, brick buildings side-by-side all the way along the top of the rise from the river, and over the tops of them, a taller structure, clearly an old castle that had been built for practicality over style. The blue slate of the roof was cracked and missing in several places, but the line of the roof was still straight and solid.

The riders were met at the bridge by a small company of soldiers, two on horseback, one of those armored, and the rest common foot soldiers. One of the smaller soldiers - probably trained to do exactly what he did - took off at a run as soon as the riders approached. The rest held their positions as the armored horseman nudged his mount forward a few paces. “What brings you men here to Kohlenbirke?” His Kostuan was good, but with a heavy accent that marked his lack of direct tutelage in the language.

Olaf held his hand up to stop all of his riders. He looked the man on the horse up and down before speaking. “We have business with the ruler of these lands, if you would excuse us I would rather get out of the rain.”

As he said this the men around him seemed to ready themselves for battle staring at the horsemen on the bridge with grins on their faces.

The horseman isn’t quite ready to fight. Besides, if these men wanted to speak to Gabriele it was not his place to say no. Let her say it - surrounded by many more men than he had here. He wheeled his horse around, and gave a gesture to his men. “Come. We’ll escort you to the castle.”

Olaf nodded to his men who mounted their horses once more following the rider.

The city of Kohlenbirke was not as small as it had first appeared while crossing the bridge. Inside the city walls, houses were crushed together in a manner that was borne from years of uncertainty and mutual protection. It would have probably taken a full day to walk around the edge of the city, following its walls. The robber baron that had had power over the land prior to the Duke’s coming had run roughshod over the inhabitants of the land, until the vast majority had moved to the safety of Kohlenbirke’s walls. Throughout the succession war that followed, both capitals had come under seige more than once, and Kohlenbirke’s perimeter still bore the marks of that. While sections of the wall were undermined and leaning, while others that had been repaired had not met the original standard. This latter work seemed to be more in the vein of having it done, with plans to come back later to repair it properly.

Inside the walls, most streets remained dirt, with the few main ones having had cobblestone laid at some point in the past that was now slowly being covered by dirt and - in the less busy areas - moss. Kohlenbirke Castle itself stood at the highest point of the city, and it too showed signs of having been assaulted in the past. Here too, repairs were underway, but the damage was extensive. Indeed, an entire wing had been leveled nearly to the ground, and a large workforce was even now clearing the last of the old building away in preparation for new construction.

Gabriele von Waling, alerted by the runner, had just finished cleaning up from where she’d been working, assisting with the clearing of the rubble. Her father had always told her that it was important that she never expect others to do what she would not, so although her time could not be spent completely on mundane tasks, she made sure that the townspeople saw that she could - and would - work alongside them. Her hair was wet after having been rinsed of the dust that billowed around the clearing-out work, and her hands and lower arms were clean, but there was no way to completely remove the dust, save a bath and a change of clothes, and there’d be no time for that until this evening. Gabriele moved to the center of the courtyard and took up a neutral stance, waiting for the visitors to arrive.

When Olaf and his party approached the courtyard he waved the straki off to stand guard over the meeting, bidding only two of his men to enter with him. All three of them wore a mix of leathers and furs with emerald cloaks held on with a pin in the shape of a boar with an arrow through it.

Upon entry Olaf and his men bowed before her. Olaf removed his hood, revealing his long dirty blond hair slightly dampened due to the rain. “Are you the Lady of these lands?” He said.

Gabriele returned the bow with a polite nod. She wasn’t sure of the rank of any of the visitors, and her etiquette tutor had died last year, but she was almost certain she was not supposed to bow in her own lands in front of her own castle. Still, whoever these men were, they almost certainly held more power than she did. “I am. And of the lands south of here as well, although my cousin would not agree. Gabriele von Waling, of the Alvaringian Walings, though I am not sure if they’re still aware of our existence all the way out here. Are you simply passing through, or…” She let the end of the sentence hang there, hoping that it would invite a conclusion from the others.

Olaf chuckled. “If we were simply passing through, there are much grander places to travel through, but I am Olaf Drovic of Volgaro.”

“You’re probably right about that.” Gabriele held no illusions as to the state of her miniature domain. Her family’s estate was full of drawings and paintings of the castles and cities of their former home, and any single one of them outshone Kohlenbirke. Still, if they were from Volgaro, it meant that her letter had been read - and answered. She made up her mind to be a good host. There were the people, after all, that would hopefully help her against her cousin.

“It’s good that you’ve come, though. And I suspect you must be tired after the last part of your ride. The pathetic excuses for roads between here and the Imperial Highway are horrible. If you’d like, you can stable your horses just to the side,” she said, pointing to a tall, sharp-pointed roof just visible past the corner of the wing that was in-tact, “or I can have my people take your horses there and tend to them, if you’d rather. We’ll have to wait a bit for dinner, since we didn’t know when you’d be here, but we do have ale so you can wash the road out of your mouth.”

Olaf looked to the two hooded men behind him speaking in the Volgar tongue before they bowed and stepped away.

The Volgar then looked back to Gabriele “You said you had ale?”

Gabriele nearly laughed, and the amusement probably showed quite plainly on her face, but she managed to keep her composure. “We do indeed! One of our small villages has a good brewery and the owner supplies us with drink in lieu of taxes. He seems to like the arrangement, and I can’t say we’re complaining about it either!”

She turned to lead the way to the castle, and waved an arm. “Come with me and we’ll get you off your feet.”

Olaf followed, noting the hidden smile on her face with a smirk.

The castle was not a very ostentatious building, but it was solid. It imposed on the landscape in the way that relatives did when they found you had better lodgings than them. It controlled the view and its dark blue-grey stone walls, and high towers with small slit-like windows drew eyes toward it and away from the squalor that surrounded it. Inside, the grey was broken by slivers of silver as the sunlight that made its way through the clouds glimmered. More light than that was cast by the sconces along the walls.

Gabriele led the way in through the tall couple doors and through the large hall that stood directly behind them. The wall opposite the door, where the interior branched off in two directions - or went around it - was covered by the fading remnants of a fresco that had been commissioned years ago and burned in a fire that began when the southerners had broken through the front doors of the castle two years ago. It was not as impressive as it had once been, but the quality of work was still clear.

The great hall stood directly to the right, open through a doorless archway. There was seating for probably forty here, but it was empty at the moment. As they came through the archway, Gabriele pulled a servant aside and - with a whispered command - the girl ran off down the side corridor. “Take the weight of the road off and relax. We’ll have refreshment delivered shortly.” There was, notably, no chair or place grander than the rest, and Gabriele waited for her guests to have a seat before she made a move to sit.

Olaf noted the destruction around the castle before taking a seat. “I’ve been sent by the Lord Marshal to….” He paused for a moment. “Assess your readiness as an ally, and if I am being blunt your realm looks as if victory was a forgotten outcome all together, let alone the state in which your castle is in.”

A darkness flashes across Gabriele’s face for just a moment as she answers. “Not forgotten, just delayed. But war is in our blood, and it is in our foe’s as well. We have a peace… of sorts, out of necessity. It is a peace of three months now. The rebuilding has only just started.” The dark look is replaced by pride as she continues. “However, that does not mean that we are not ready to fight. Nearly twenty-thousand men proudly serve Kohlenbirke. When we recover, that number will be closer to thirty thousand. We may not be the grand armies of the east, but we know how to fight.”

“I would like to assess that as well.” Olaf said with a smirk. “We Volgars pride ourselves as warriors without equal, and I have brought some of our best. While I am here I will test you and your men….and your ale.” He said with a chuckle.

Gabriele raises an eyebrow. “I am not sure there is a better test than half a decade of war. You judge the castle, but look at the countryside. It’s nearly completely untouched. We protected our people at the expense of ourselves. But I welcome your tests all the same. We may not be the best, but we will stand up to anyone who presents themselves. As for the ale…”

She turned at the sound of footsteps, and a line of servants entered, carrying a keg of ale and trays stacked with mugs, wooden, but polished to a shine. “... it appears the first test is starting now,” she grinned.

Olaf filled his mug quickly, gulping it down. “I don’t doubt your men’s capability to fight a foe that thinks like them.” He said quickly refilling his mug again. “It is one’s that don’t, that tend to cause trouble,” he said before gulping down his second mug.

“As for your lands, I did notice they seem intact in comparison to the castle. Which is good in my opinion.”

“It’s never a bad idea to learn new things.” As the others have gotten their ale, she goes ahead and fills up a mug of her own, knocking it back as quickly as it was filled. “Anything that you see that you think we can do better at, I’m willing to listen. I won’t guarantee a change, of course, but it’s stupid to be close-minded.”

Olaf nodded. “What exactly are you promising for Volgar aid in this civil war.”

Of course, this was the one question that Gabriele had been thinking about ever since she’d sent the letter to Volgaro. Kohlenbirke was not a large nation. Not a nation at all, really. She didn’t want to end up eternally beholden to an outside power just to get rid of a local one. “We do have natural resources - gems and gold, but we also have soldiers. Soldiers that would feel honor-bound to repay your kindness in an hour of need.”

“So an alliance of sorts, yes?” Olaf said, looking at Gabriele with curiosity.

“Well. Truth be told, I am not sure how much the number of fighters we have at our disposal would tip the scales, but yes. If we receive help in defense of our homeland, we will repay the favor.” Truth be told, she was unsure how welcome the offer would even be. She had read stories of that sort of offer being seen as an insult, so she only hoped she was reading the situation correctly and that the offer would not discover even more enemies.

Olaf thought for a moment. “It is customary for things such as this to be sealed with more than a simple hand shake.”

Gabriele smiled. It wasn’t exactly friendly, but those present would have been hard-pressed to say exactly what it was. “If it is a document you wish me to sign, I would need to let my advisors read it, but I would not be averse to formalizing the arrangement. It wouldn’t mean much to the people here, but they will honor it just the same.”

“I was not talking about a document but if that is what you wish then I will report back that we need to bring a scholar on our next visit.” He said, nodding. “In Volgaro most treaties are sealed if possible by marriage, that way noble lines can continue and hold true to the terms of the treaties made by their forefathers, mostly a ceremonial thing but we Volgars tend to be a superstitious folk.”

A marriage. This hadn't really been at the forefront of Gabriele's mind, though now that it was mentioned, she realized she probably should have at least been aware of the possibility. It was how things were done after all, even if it hadn't been possible here for a couple generations. The slightest tinge of a blush crept up the back of her neck as she fully realized what was going to be asked of her. She had no relations that she could call on for this duty. If there was going to be a marriage, it was going to have to be hers. "I'm sorry. I meant no offense. I've simply been in one mindset for quite a long time — marriage never entered my mind. How exactly would that work?"

Olaf chuckled. “Well you could marry one of the Reichsfrau’s cousins, or one of the available nobles from the different houses which sit on the Volkiban.” He stroked his beard, thinking.

“It would have to be someone who could stand the plain living here. I wouldn’t want to drag someone all the way down here who was accustomed to a more sophisticated life. And someone who could stand the rain. It does that a lot here.” Practical things first. In truth what she meant - and what Olaf no doubt understood - was that she didn’t want someone who would complain all day every day about having to live in Kohlenbirke. If she was going to be wed out of necessity she was at least not going to be wed stupidly.

Olaf’s face turned stern for a moment before he responded. “Well that is an interesting request, can’t be the Reichsfrau’s cousin; he complains about everything” He stroked his beard once more in thought.

While he thought, Gabriele took the opportunity to refill her mug from the keg that her people had provided. She’d made a show of drinking quickly, but to a keen eye, her speed was rather slow — she appeared to drink significantly more than she did. “It’s not something that has to be decided here and now. You’re here as our guests; I don’t want to foist work on you right up front. Supper will be served soon, and tomorrow I can show you the land.

Olaf nodded “Well I will retire till then. Good day, Lady Gabriele.”

With his departure, Gabriele turned her attention to overseeing the upcoming dinner. Under normal times there would be three simple courses, but for the first time in over a decade, Kohlenbirke was to have guests. There was to be no corners cut, no spices pinched. An hour later, after spending the majority of the intervening time in discussion with the cook, Gabriele was satisfied, and retired to her room to change out of her day clothes.

The dining hall was lit for the evening with candles adorning the upper walls and three large polycandela that hung from thick chains along the middle line of the room. The combined effect cast an amber glow over the room, with shadows licking the corners of the hall.

Gabriele let the hall fill before she made her appearance - not that she’d had much choice; it had taken her a good while to get clean after her work earlier in the day. The servants in charge of the dinner had made sure that Gabriele - along with her Steward and intelligencer - were seated at the long table at the head of the room. She strode into the room - that was the only word for it, really - not pausing at the door as some would have had they planned the same type of entrance. Her burgundy gown that trailed behind her was trimmed with black fur, around the deep cut collar and at the ends of the long, flared sleeves. Although it was of a style that was long out-of-date in the capitals of Sokos, she wore it well. A wide belt of golden thread tied in the back just above her waist, and her hair cascaded down her back freely. She sat down with just enough time to greet the others before the first course was served - a mistake on the servants’ part, but not an overly large one.

The food was simple, but well-presented. After the water and towels were passed around, the first course was served. This dish was a mix of vegetables, parsley roots, carrots, radishes, and turnips. All thinly sliced, then boiled until soft, and then soaked in honey, salt, and ginger, and then cooked with sugar, wine, and raisins until the sugar vanished, and finally sprinkled with ground anise and fennel. Arranged into small bite-sized balls, they were served in large, shallow bowls, allowing anyone who wished to take them with their fingers.

Olaf looked at the dish with a slight grin, before looking towards Gabriele. Olaf had thought she was attractive to begin with, but the dress stunned him for a moment before he spoke. “You continue to impress, Lady Gabriele.” He said, chuckling.

Gabriele was quite obviously taken aback at the form of address. She had never been one to stand on formality, even while her family was still alive to insist upon it. She required only deference from her small court, not honorifics, and so hearing it once more gave her a momentary pause. Her eyebrow raised — and then lowered again. She smiled, a small gesture, as she sat. “It is my only good dress, and I have so few opportunities to wear it. I thought it would be a shame if I missed it.”

“Well my lady, I will happily say it suits you.” He said eating the food. “I thank you and the Saints for this meal.”

Gabriele nodded her head in a tiny mirroring of a curtsy. “I appreciate the compliment. I do hope you enjoy the rest of the meal as well. Is it much different from what you’re accustomed to so far? I know it’s just been the one dish…”

“While I am a noble, I have become appreciative of any meal I'm given, for I spend most of my time in the wilderness with my men,” he said.

“Well, at any rate, I do hope it’s not too jarring to your palette. I know my father often spoke of how hard it was to get used to the food here. I’m used to it, having never known anything else.” She plucked a few of the pickled balls from the bowl and popped one into her mouth. “Perhaps cuisine could be part of the exchange.”

“Perhaps.” Olaf said thinking while he ate. “If I may ask, what exactly are you wanting my people to do?”

“My family spent considerable effort increasing the quality of these people’s lives - and yes, probably our own coffers too; I know little of that because by now the coffers all around are bare. War does that.” She’d interrupted her reply with that aside, but now gets back on track. “Then, because of a fluke of birth, someone else claimed the Grand Duke’s title. I’m sure she’s a lovely woman in her own right, but,” she punctuated each word now as a separate sentence in itself. “She is not the rightful heir…” and her brow furrowed. “... regardless of her order. She is not a von Waling, her family did none of the work, and I will have her gone if it is the last thing I do. Our forces are regretfully equal, however, and so we have been unable to make significant headway in our efforts—”

The next dish was served just then. This heavier one was spit-roasted steak, basted in wine and vinegar with black pepper and ginger. The meat would have been served no matter who ate at the castle tonight, as the preparation took over a day, but tonight’s was more special than normal. Over all else, the cook had added a sprinkling of cinnamon. It was the last of Kohlenbirke’s stores, and Gabriele would sorely miss it, but this was the occasion for it.

When the steak was finished being served, she likewise finished her thought. “I want the war decided and done. However it’s managed, we will obviously be in your debt and would likewise come to your aid when requested.”

“That being said I have made a decision on my recommendation to Lord Marshal Drovij.” He’s said, eating into his steak.

This surprised Gabriele, and it undoubtedly showed across her face despite her attempt to bury it. She paused just before her first bite of steak, fork hanging in the air to disguise the fact that her jaw was trying to do the same thing. "I didn't expect something so soon. I thought you'd at least want to see the land or the men first."

“I will see those things while I’m here but my decision was always going to be based on your hospitality, therefore I have made my decision.” Olaf said with a chuckle.

“I’m glad to hear it then! We do enjoy having guests, I just wish everything was in better shape. I’ve had to hold off on repairing the castle while we rebuild Kriev. It was caught in the middle of a major battle last month, and over half of it burnt down. We can’t very well prioritize an extra wing of a castle when I have a roof over my head and they don’t.” She caught up on eating her steak. Truth be told, her eating habits were a bit more mannish than could be expected. But growing up with four elder cousins, all male, had taught her the value of finishing your food and doing so quickly, lest it become someone else’s. At least she wasn’t eating with an arm around her bowl as she used to when she was a child.

Olaf chuckled at the sight, finishing his steak calmly before setting his cutlery down, looking Gabriele in the eyes. “So what are the numbers of your cousin's forces?”

“Almost identical to my own, by all accounts. We’ve been trading blow for blow pretty evenly. She has better defenses than we do - or at least than we did. We’re fairly confident in ourselves… now. The quality is probably where we differ. Her troops are trained by veterans, mine are not. But we know the land better.”

“So what you need is a well trained force to turn the tides, yes?”

“I believe so. I have faith in my men, and they have heart. We simply - and quite frankly - lack the tactical knowledge that my cousin’s armies have.” She sat back after saying this, leaving room for the servants to again swap out dishes. This one, a simple pasty, was designed to calm the stomach after the heavy meat, was filled with mushroom, and topped with cheese and fried egg. A simple preparation, it would tide the eaters over until the next course was here.

Olaf ate into the pasty making a face as he did so for a moment before continuing the conversation. “I would say calling our straki down would do the trick, each of them is a general in their own right and the order that will be sent will of course do their duty or die trying.”

He thought for a moment. “Saint Ulrich’s own might be willing to come here, Grandmaster Fredrich is only second to the Lord Marshal when it comes to his tactical mind.” He said putting his hand to his chin.

Gabriele did not have a lot of input on this matter; he certainly knew his own countrymen better than she did. And so — as was her unfortunate wont when she was at a loss for words — she spoke anyway. “I certainly hope I’m not going to be expected to marry them all. That could be tiring.”

Olaf stopped for a moment bursting into laughter. “Wouldn’t that be a sight!” He said before regaining his composure. “But no, they will most likely want to marry you with someone within the Volkiban so that Kohenbirke is kept close to Volgaro for years to come.”

Gabriele managed to keep herself from laughing at her own joke — and avoiding the embarrassment after she realized what the sight was that he was talking about — by eating a good half of her pasty. Then, she asked, “What is the Volkiban? I suppose I should know some about the workings of Volgaro if we’re to be tied to you.”

“Do you want my personal answer or the official nobility answer?” Olaf said, a smirk on his face.

Gabriele chuckled at that. “Something tells me your personal answer will be both less flattering and more informative than the official one. Let’s have that one.”

“It’s where most of the nobles parade around like peacocks while getting nothing done due to being at odds with one another, won’t even listen to the one man who is trying to help our people due to his ties with the Reichfrau or the fact he is a Sudenmen.” He took a sip from his drink. “In short it is a circus of fools and dried up old warriors longing for a bygone age of delusional and grandiose speckles of wasting their subjects' lives for some fools notion of pride.”

“I’m not sure I like the sound of marrying one of them. Is there another option?”

“Well it could be one of their children, which is the most likely option, that would include me and a few others.” Olafs said finishing his course.

“And then I’d have a few years before I’d have to fit you for your tailfeathers,” she smirked. She was saved from immediate retort by the next course. The servants brought in the second meat, a civet of trout, cut open, boned, and splayed, breaded with a paste of ale, then fried in butter along with onions.

“Oh, is that proposal my lady?” He said faking shyness, before chuckling and eating into the fish with a smile. “Now this reminds me of home.”

“I really shouldn’t yet, Gabriele replied. “I don’t know you at all, really. But I could see it. At least I know I wouldn’t be having to deal with unmitigated ego for ego’s sake. That gets rather boring after a while.”

“I suppose you are right, I only have great pride In very few things but the only thing I will not let be slandered is my fighting prowess and my love of this fish!” He said digging in.

“Two things that should never be taken for granted,” Gabriele replied dryly. The next few moments were empty of sound, save for the demolishment of the fish and the pouring of wine. Then, as she finished her fish, she added, “Tell me about Volgaro, then. What is it like there? What are your favorite things?”

“Well my people the Volgars made a warrior folk, raised up knowing the way of the blade and horse from a young age, it snows most of the time other than spring and early to mid summer. I particularly like what being a ranger allows me to see. The way nature bends and shapes with time I can almost hear the singing of the spirits during High spring and their howls during the Long winter, they are beautiful songs that I would never wish to miss.”

Gabriele’s eyes lit up as Olaf talked about the outdoors. It was an experience she too enjoyed. So enraptured was she that she nearly forgot to reply, until her Steward nudged her with his elbow as discreetly as possible. “I’m sorry, I was paying attention. Too much attention, perhaps. The woods and hills and streams of our lands are my favorite place to be as well. My father told me that a ruler could not hope to truly rule well unless they understood the heart of their people and the soul of their land. It is good to meet someone from outside who holds the land in such regard.”

“The ancient Volgar faith is based on the worship of spirits and the belief that they are in everyday even the tiniest grain of sand, that is what I believe in, I believe that you can hear these spirits singing a certain song as if it is the world’s orchestra.” Olaf stated, smiling softly.

“The people here believe something similar. My family, on the other hand, has always believed in the Greatest, but we have also never been in touch with the natural world. The more I am, the more I feel that they - and you - might be correct.”

Just then, the last course, the desert was set before them. So invested in the conversation they were that the servants had managed to do it almost unnoticed. It was in two parts. First, a cherry pottage, the fruit pureed with bread, wine, sugar, and salt. It was served in a bowl lined with rose petals, and once eaten through to the bottom, they would find a rose pudding made with cream and pine nuts.

Olaf ate his desert. “I am glad you feel the way you do about nature, most in Volgaro have forgotten that part of our ancestry and only focus on the warriors and raiders.” He said after he finished.

As Gabriele finished hers up as well, she replied, “There’s definitely something to be said about fighting prowess. But what are you fighting for? If it’s not the land that you love, a battle might as well be an immense gathering of town drunks, for all the good it will do. And if you destroy the very thing you’re fighting for, you might as well surrender and let your foe enjoy it.”

“Agreed, we may have more in common then I had first thought, I believe this visit shall prove enjoyable.” Olaf said, raising his mug to Gabriele with a smile.

Gabriele returned the smile with a grin of her own, knocking her mug against his. “I am sure it will be! And our common interests will hopefully lead to a long friendship.”

Uyuti, Volgaro, Syrduria, Ryeongse, and 1 otherEskeland

Post self-deleted by Volgaro.

A Challenge of the Heart
Copost with Eskeland

It was a day like any other, Karl was in his study writing a letter, it was directed to the ruler of Volgaro, Reichsfrau Isabella, after reading many books and listening to many stories about Volgaro and the supposed ancestral connection that his father used to talk so much about, Karl became infatuated with learning more about it and with it came he desire to invite her to Eskeland, he felt this was the time to reconnect again with his cultural cousins, to seek better relationships, maybe even learn something more about this common ancestry. He wrote a letter to Isabella and it said the following:

“To Reichsfrau Isabella, Ruler of Volgaro,

It is with much regard that I write to you, I have been pondering for many days now a meeting with you, I want to reconnect with my cultural cousins to the north, that is why I invite you to come and visit Eskeland where I shall receive you with open arms, there is much I wish to talk to you about regarding the future relationship of our countries.

Sincerely,

Karl Johann av Varberg
König of Eskeland “

It was a short letter, but it went straight to the point. It would take some time to arrive. Karl was excited, and he was hoping for a positive response, the last time a Volgaro ruler came to Eskeland was during the reign of King Alderik, and that was centuries ago.

This letter would reach Isabella shortly before she departed southward towards Serulea, within the months she had stayed within the embrace of her new husband she had kept it in the back of her mind and wrote a short response to the Southern King.

“Dear King Karl av Varberg

It is with great pleasure that I have received your letter, for I have been spending these past months in travels and foreign courts, what would one more be for our southern cousins.

A Torsenic reunion, let it be known I will be traveling towards your lands post haste after spending some time with my new husband and restocking my caravan for travel.

With the Warmest Regards

Isabella Von Reinhardt
Reichfrau of Volgaro”

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Karl was in his throne room holding court, when he got handed a letter by one of his couriers, he told him it was from Isabella, Karl gave it a read and then finished holding court before moving on towards making the preparations for her arrival, he expected her to come accompanied, since he heard she was traveling with an entourage.

Meanwhile, on the other side of Sokos, Isabella was bidding Sebastien farewell for the time being before departing. She would sail off around the southern coast of Sokos and towards the Eskelian port and capital of Tidahamn. They would stop in the elven port of Mithranus, the Aelythian port of Myranthos, and the Tong colony of Tsokhai to rest and restock along the way.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Finally after a long voyage the royal flagship would approach the port of Tidahamn. There, Karl, his wife and some of his most trusted nobles waited for her ship to dock in port. Once docked, down came Isabella, together with her cousins and the famous Straki Guards, renowned throughout all of Eskeland for being one of the fiercest warriors in all of Sokos. The Royal Guard lined up the way to the carriage that would transport them to the palace, Karl wasn’t about to let a foreign ruler travel on foot or on horse.

Karl greeted Isabella with a bow and a kiss to her hand, “I'm delighted to finally make your acquaintance my lady and it seems like the rumours about your beauty are true, your husband Sebastien is very lucky”

Isabella curtsied smiling “Thank you for inviting us King Karl, I am happy to see what our southern cousins have to offer.”

“I must certainly apologise for inviting you here, I know it’s a long voyage, so I hope there were no inconveniences along the way, but anyhow, I bid you welcome to my city and to my country”

Isabella and her party began to follow the king, Wilhelm muttering under his breath to a couple of the Straki guards.

“I want to present to you my wife, Raewyn, the love of my life and the brains of the family” Raewyn couldn’t stop herself from letting out a soft laugh at her husband’s remark, before bowing courteously towards Isabella and her family “A pleasure to meet you all”. Karl proceeded to introduce the rest, “And finally this is Frau Ellinor av Kovalev, daughter of the Duke of Apenstad, who unfortunately could not be present here today, he’s sick, but she was kind enough to be here today to represent him.

Alexsander looked at Elinor bowing. “My name is Aleksander Von Dreni Reinhardt, my lady, a pleasure to meet you.”

Ellinor responded kindly by also bowing “Ellinor Emilia av Kovalev, it’s a pleasure to meet you too”

Wilhelm also bowed to the King and Elinor “Thank you for inviting us all.”

Karl kindly introduced himself to the rest and motioned them to follow him to their respective carriages, Isabella, Karl and Raewyn would travel together in the first one, the rest would follow in the others. On their way to the palace, the three of them talked about many things about their respective homelands ,while Karl showed Isabella the many interesting places Paradis had to offer.

Their arrival at the palace was met by the servants, who helped carry their belongings to the guest rooms where they would stay during their visit. Isabella and her cousins marveled at the sights of the palace, beautifully decorated, it would make any king jealous or so the people said. Karl showed them the way to the dinning hall where a welcoming banquet awaited them, the best meats, the freshest fruits, and drinks, a meal fit for a king.

Isabella took her seat near the king and queen chatting to them as dinner was served and Wilhelm sitting on the far end with the guards. Aleksander himself chose a seat near the middle of the table drinking and chatting happily to those around him, glancing every now and again at the Lady Ellinor before returning to his conversation or meal.

Ellinor couldn’t stop herself from noticing, she wondered what could have caught his attention. After the banquet, Aleksander quickly left towards his room, Ellinor decided to follow him, catching him on his way to his room, she tapped him on his shoulder and asked him “What got you looking so much in my direction back at the table?”

Aleksander turned around a bit stunned at the lady's bluntness, causing him to chuckle nervously. “Well to be honest Lady Ellinor I can't help but be intrigued by your unknowing charm, I do apologize if I have offended you in any way.” He said, giving a small bow.

“Not at all, no man before has ever looked at me so much, so I imagined something caught your eye.” Said Ellinor, with a soft smile, “You look like an interesting person, I’d like to know a bit more about you and your home if you don’t mind.”

Aleksander chuckled. “It would be my pleasure to enlighten you about my people and home.” He held out a hand. “Perhaps over a walk my lady?”

“With pleasure” Said Ellinor grabbing Aleksander’s hand, they both left the palace for the back gardens where they conversed, after some time walking around they sat by the fountain, where they would spend the remainder of their time, unfortunately their afternoon was cut short, when an unwanted guest arrived, from the distance they kept shouting Ellinor’s name, walking fast towards her, Ellinor tried to cover her face, but it was of no use. “Ellinor! Ellinor! Here you are” said the guy.

“Oh, Halvar, how did you know I was here, I thought you had business to take care off back in Helsingstad?” Aleksander could notice the displeasure in Ellinor’s face when she spoke to him
“Business?” He laughed, “Don’t be ridiculous, you told me to meet back at the plaza, but then I heard you departed for Tidahamn with urgency, so I quickly packed my things and went after you, when I arrived, they told me you were receiving some foreigners, you had left the docks by the time I arrived, so my next thought was the palace, I came and the guards told me you were back here, come here give me a kiss I missed you so much my love.” Halvar went for a kiss.

Ellinor stopped him, “Halvar stop,not now and much less here in front of our guest.” Ellinor proceeded to introduce Halvar to Aleksander, “Halvar, I want to introduce you to Aleksander Von Dreni Reinhardt, Prince of Volgaro and cousin to the ruler of Volgaro, Isabella, he’s here accompanying her.

Halvar bowed “Sorry friend, I hadn't noticed your presence before, I’m Halvar av Gylle, Lord of Gylle Castle, a pleasure to meet someone of such stature around this parts”

Aleksander bowed in turn. “The pleasure is all mine Lord Halvar.”

“Anyways friend, I hope you don’t mind if I take her away, she and I sort of have something pending to take care of beforehand, I am sure she had a lot of fun spending time with you, as a matter of fact allow me to thank you for taking care of her for me, now let’s go Ellinor, we have a lot to talk about” Halvar went on to grab her hand.

She pulled it away.“No Halvar, I’m here entertaining our guest, I can’t leave and please treat him with the respect he deserves, can you please leave us alone for a moment, we can speak afterwards.”

Halvar felt offended by that and responded back “Ohh is that so? What are you two, lovers? I leave you alone for a day and you already flirt with the first foreigner you see, you harlot!” Halvar tried to slap her but Aleksander stopped him.

Aleksander scowled. “Take care you do not make a decision you will regret Lord Halvar.” He said, pushing the lord's hand aside.

Halvar regained his composure and just laughed, “It’s getting late anyways, I’ll allow you to spend some more time with him, Ellinor, but I hope to see you tomorrow in the main plaza, we are going back home, together” With that last remark Halvar left.

She looked at Aleksander in the eyes, “Thank you, it's not the first time he’s tried something like that, he’s been trying to court me for months now, but I don’t like him, he tends to be very jealous as you already saw”

Aleksander gave a bow. “It was nothing, Lady Ellinor, I would be abandoning my oath as a member of the Drunaran Guard if I had allowed such an act against an innocent woman.” Aleksander smiled for a second. “Perhaps you would be interested in a morning walk tomorrow? Since this one was interrupted so abruptly.”

Ellinor replied with a warm smile, “How nice of you, of course I would be, maybe it will help me get the memory of this displeasing encounter out of my head, but let’s go somewhere where he can’t find us, I would hate to see his face once more.”

Aleksander smiled. “Then it is settled, shal I walk you to your quarters in case Lord Halvar decides to try again?” He said bowing with his hand out towards Ellinor

“Please do.” Said Ellinor giving him her hand

The Prince happily took her hand, chatting with her as they walked. Inside the palace once he took her to her quarters, they parted ways, but not before Ellinor gave him a goodbye kiss on the cheek, Aleksander was left a bit startled by that, deciding to take a walk and explore the palace a bit more, remembering the kiss he felt some emotions he hadn’t before, “A most interesting woman indeed” he said with a hint of blush in his cheeks, he returned to his quarters visions of Ellinor clouding his head.

As the new day dawned, Aleksander was already preparing himself to go out with Ellinor, he had no idea where would be a good place to take her where no one would bother them, he wasn’t from there after all, he thought that asking some of the locals might be a good idea and that he did. He would put on his ceremonial straki armor, along with a half cape with the Coat of Arms of the Drunaran guard and House Dreni Reinhardt.

Aleksander would speak with one of the servants tending to his quarters. “Madam, would you happen to know where one could go to have some privacy?”

She looked at him, eyeing him from head to toe, “Privacy you say… a man of your looks draws much attention around this parts,and with the recent happenings the city has been more busy than ever, but I do know of a place, where one could get some privacy, outside of the city, to the left, there is a hill called Solitary Hill, no one will bother you there.”

“Thank you very much.” Aleksander said bowing and leaving to retrieve Elinor. She greeted him with a compliment and another kiss to the cheek and then they left. Ellinor looked excited to know where he was taking her, but Aleksander kept it a secret. Walking through the streets, many looked over, when they saw the gallant foreign prince, with his shining armour, walking hand in hand with the well known Ellinor, many of the girls of the nobility watched in jealousy, wishing they were her. It would be a bit of a walk, Aleksander decided to purchase a horse and ride with her to their destination.

Aleksander rode to Solitary Hill using the directions that the servant had stated. Once getting to him, he helped Ellinor off the horse and looked at her with a smile. “So where did we leave off last evening? You wanted to know about Volgaro, yes?”

Ellinor chuckled, “And maybe about us.” Aleksander carried her to the hill where they laid down.
Meanwhile, back in Tidahamn, Halvar furiously began looking for Ellinor all over town, but when one the palace servants told him she had gone out with Aleksander to Solitary Hill, he couldn’t take it anymore, in a fit of jealousy, he took his longsword, mounted his horse and rode all the way over there too meet them. When he arrived he saw them both too comfortable for his liking, then he interrupted them “I knew it! I can’t believe this betrayal” Said looking over at Ellinor, “And you!” As he pointed at Aleksandr, “You come to the country for a few days, then try to steal my woman, you… you lowlife!”

“And you sir are a marvel of the Greatest’s vast sense of mercy towards the dull and soft headed!” Aleksander said standing.

The situation started escalating as Halvar and Aleksander kept at it for a bit, Ellinor tried to stop them, but her words fell on deaf ears. Eventually Halvar had enough of it, drawing out his longsword he pointed it at Aleksander neck “Listen here, I’ve had enough of you, nobody steals my woman like that, I demand you to duel me to the death! Take out your sword and fight me! Show me what a son of the so-called Greatest is capable of!”

Ellinor protested Halvar’s challenge of a duel to the death; she called him deranged for the decision. She begged Aleksander to not accept the challenge but he just told her. “I apologize Lady Ellinor but as a Straki I cannot refuse this challenge.”

He looked to Halvar. “I accept you challenge you Whoreson, let it be known I did not start this but I will happily put a southern pup down.”

The men cleared the area around them and positioned themselves.

“So you say you’re a Straki? Pfft”, He laughed “I’m an ex-member of the Winter Guard, our skill with the longsword is unmatched, you better prepare to die!” Halvar charged with his longsword, ready to deal the first blow.

Aleksander merely stepped to the side, scratching the leg of Halvar with the tip of his Szabla before taking a defensive stance.

Halvar quickly regained his stance, this time he took his time to analyze his surroundings, refraining from doing any moves while keeping his longsword up in a defensive position. He slowly began approaching Aleksander, before swinging his longsword towards his head in hopes of making him tumble.

The Prince scoffed before stepping aside once more before catching Halvar’s leg once again. “Your Winter Guard trains in brute force I see, I would surrender before you meet your maker.”

This one made Halvar almost stumble, the remark made him angry, but for once he maintained his composure “You dare taint the name of the guard, but yours seems to train in cowardice, let’s see how you fare at the offensive, come at me if you have any bravery in you.” Halvar took the defensive stance with his longsword raised ready to deflect any attack.

Aleksander took a stance as if he was going to attack before reaching into his cloak and throwing a dagger quickly towards Halvar’s chest.

Unable to avoid it in time, the dagger went straight through his chest, he fell on his knees bleeding out and eventually falling face down, he laid there, defeated and dead. Ellinor was in shock at such an unexpected move, she had no idea what to think, she found it to be a dishonorable move, even if Halvar deserved it.

Aleksander walked to Halvar’s body, kneeling and praying for a moment. “I apologize Ser Halvar but while I am a Prince, I am also a Volgar, I could not allow myself to lose. I hope you find peace with the Greatest.”

He then looked to Ellinor. “I also apologize to you Lady Ellinor if I have caused you to hate me. I understand and shall return you to your quarters and shall give myself up to your judgement.” He said a tear falling from his eye as he picked up the body of Halvar and placed it on his horse. “He deserves a proper warrior’s burial, he died in a honorable duel that any Volgar would be proud of despite it being over a misunderstanding.”

Ellinor put her hand on his back “He’s in the hands of Menia now” She said referring to her own goddess, “But you’re a good man, don’t mistake my surprise for hate towards you, it was just unexpected, although not the most honourable thing, Halvar would have tried something similar sooner or later, except he wouldn’t have even cared to bury you. I should tell you something about him, he was in the Winter Guard, but he was fired for bad conduct, not deemed proper of a soldier, and not sticking to the proper training, he always acted before thinking.” She cleared the tears off of his eyes “Let’s go bury him, together.”

They went to bury him in the ancient Warrior’s Mound, no longer in use, but open to anyone to still bury people there, to give Halvar a proper burial as Aleksander wanted, afterwards they headed back to the palace. The couple next days they would spend them without talking much, both feeling a bit awkward after all that happened and when they day of the Volgars departure arrived everyone gathered up in the great hall for the departure ceremony, but Aleksander during those days came to terms with his feelings and no longer wanting to keep quiet decided to approach Ellinor.

Aleksander made sure the two of them were alone before speaking. “Lady Ellinor before we depart I wanted to tell you that you have made this visit an enlightening and enjoyable experience that I shall not forget, I only regret we do not have more time together.”

Ellinor looked at him, a tinge of sadness in her face, “I also regret it, despite being short,my time with you has been unforgettable, I wish we could spend more time together, but I guess…time has runned out”

Aleksander’s eyes brightened for a moment before he spoke. “But what if it did not have to?” He grabbed her hands. “What if by the Greatest’s will we were brought together?”

"What do you mean by that?" She asked.

“If you would have me, Lady Elinor I, Aleksander Von Dreni Reinhardt would gladly ask to take your hand in marriage.” He said, taking her hand.

Ellinor's face blushed, a tear could be seen going down her face, "I-I, yes I accept" She hugged him.

He held her for a moment before looking at her and smiling. “My cousin will be overjoyed to hear this news. We must tell her so the proper preparations can be made.” He said excitedly.

Aleksander and Ellinor returned back to the hall, where Karl and Isabella where, interrupting their conversation, he explained what had happened recently between him and her. Isabella seemed pleased, Karl gave them their blessing and assured that Ellinor's father would be pleased as well. The only thing remaining was the matter of the wedding. Aleksander suggested having it in Tidahamn, it would be easier since they were there already.

Karl had no problem with that, and Isabella agreed to extend their visit for a while longer, and so it was that the wedding would take place a week from then, to allow time for the preparations and to not take too much time away from them. The ceremony was celebrated in the Eskelian way, everyone had fun. At the end Karl gifted Aleksander a beautiful Eskelian longsword with engravings around the hilt with ancient Eskelian runes, translating to words of luck and a fruitful marriage, as per tradition.

After the ceremonies were finished Aleksander and Ellinor quickly packed what they could aboard the Volgar ship before bidding her father, Karl and his court farewell, before sailing back into the distant horizon bound for Serulea once more.

Uyuti, Ryeongse, and Eskeland

Trader's Union part 1
Tariglaive Port

Melita Hannimara sipped her wine a mulled over the letter she had received. Her application to the Astarte Trade Union had been denied. Her father's friend and her only ally, Jebel Baaliahon, sat across from her. The dwarf sipped his own wine and waited for her to finish. "This is bullshit," she said, "This is nothing more than a cop out. My books are clean, spotless even. Yes, we have had few bad years, so does everyone else."

Jebel sighed, "It not that. I was there for the deliberations. Your father was not a good business man. They are worried you picked up his bad habits." Melita set the letter down, "My father did the best he could with the hand he was dealt. He showed me the ledgers, the agreements. My family's troubles began long before my father took control. If you want to point the blame, blame my Grandfather. The man never hung onto his pennies long enough to rub them together."

"Your education does help, and if you read the letter further," Jebel explained and place his finger on the last couple of lines, "You'll see that the Union left room open for you to prove yourself. I disagreed." Melita reread the letter and stared the old dwarf down, "Why did you disagree?"

"Because the Astarte Trade Union is getting too big. Very soon, they'll have a monopoly on both Salt and Dyes. I know your family once dealt in Porcelain and Silk, still do if I recall correctly. But, there is still an open market for Salt and Dyes here in Tariglaive."

"So you want me to enter the Salt trade?"

"Everyone needs Salt. Hell, entire wars have been fought over Salt. But, that is not what I am talking about. There are other merchants going into Salt, enough to create competition, I was thinking Dyes."

"I don't have any facilities for Dyes," Melita said. Jebel held up a finger, "You have the money, yes? If not, find it. Then hire carpenters and the dye makers. Storage will not be a problem for you, just free up a few warehouses. You can even experiment with the Silk you have."

Melita sat back and thought about it, "Why are you helping me? This will hurt you and your business." Jebel smiled, "At first, yes. I will lose profits and may need to fire some staff, but in the long run it will benefit me and my family." Melita sighed and stood, "I'll have to think about it."

Hannimara Residence
Melita soaked herself in the porcelain basin that was her tub. It was something her family sold to wealth nobles and aristocrats in the Golden Bay. The soap was a local brand, recently made. A rune of heat was written inside the tub, paired with a rune of water. It was cheap, but expensive enchantments were out of her price range at the moment. She mulled over Jebel's words. Why would a merchant willing go out of his way to hurt his business now with the hope it would do better tomorrow? I bugged her, but he did have some wise words. The problem would be to build her business up without alerting the Astarte Trade Union. If they drop their prices lower than what she could do, she was done. Stepping out of her tub and toweling herself of, she walked over to her desk and wrote a letter to several foreign merchants who dealt in dyes. It was time to chart her own course.

Rolais, Uyuti, and Eskeland

Ryeongse

Honor

3k Expansion Post

Dongbu Kolkaeguk (Corcaigh Oirthear), the Chiefdom of Moy, the MacCahan Residence

Manus fumbled with a long twig in his hand. He poked about the coarse mountain dirt that spread throughout his pasture. He took a slow look around. Some of his yyaka were lying on the grass, trying to absorb what sparse morning sunlight they could get to combat the cold winter. Others were moseying about, braying gruffly to each other and grooming the foals of the bunch.

Manus had no children himself, a problem many in the chiefdom have made expressly clear to him. What kind of chief, they all said, has no heirs unto whom to pass the throne? Manus had a nephew or cousin he viewed as potential successors, but the issue never really bothered him too much. Moy had survived for this long, even under Ryeongse. It would continue to survive.

Ryeongse. Manus snapped his twig in two with the twitch of his fingers. The horde from the north had swept through the Goidelic homelands a millennia ago, coming back now only within the last few years to claim the Astrals and Perennials, sticking out like salt-white fingers as Moy sat in their palm, as their own. The chiefdoms of Corcaigh Oirthear were isolated, from each other as well as the union to the west. Easier to manipulate that way. Easier to coerce into vassaltry. In their self-proclaimed mission for “the strategic defense of the Ryeongsean Astrals and Perennials” (what made them Ryeongsean?) the Ryeongseans marched in and established lines of fortresses and walls across the mountainside, forming a web around Corcaigh Oirthear centered around Hwangsorui. The chiefdoms residing in the county where Hwangsorui was built were expelled by the Ryeongseans, many refugees residing in Moy. Even the Kostuan remnants that last held the fortress did little to bother the Goidels.

“Chief,” a voice broke from Manus’ thoughts. He looked to where the voice came from. It was from Einneane, a small woman of Myokko descent who served dutifully as Manus’ deputy. She leaned casually against the shabby wooden fence opposite him. “It’s Ryeongse.”

Manus stood from the stump at the edge of the pasture on which he sat daily watching his flock. He lumbered over towards Einneane, over whom he always towered significantly. “Let’s go greet our loving overlords,” he responded, rolling his eyes.

Many in Moy were descended from the Myokko. They, Manus had no problem with. Moy was a chiefdom that had blended with the Myokko people and culture when they migrated to the Astrals all those centuries ago. They were equals, and the Goidels and Myokko treated each other as equals. Manus had yet to see if the Ryeongseans viewed them much the same.

{{==========}}

Dongbu Kolkaeguk, the Chiefdom of Moy, Town Center

Munsang shivered against the cold. His higher rank as head of the Ryeongsean cavalry necessitated frequent trips to the Astrals, something he loathed. The cold. He could never see snow without shivering uncontrollably. Either because of the cold even its image seemed to bring or that Munsang could never see snow unstained with the blood of his fellow soldiers.

His breaths condensated instantaneously within his baikhu mask. He had imagined it would bring warmth to his lower face (his eyes would have to suffer uncovered) but the mask was almost more of a curse; if it got too cold, the moisture from his breath could freeze it right onto his face. As his horse, followed by an entourage of cavalrymen, scribes, officials, and mages, neared the ruling town of the Moi chiefdom, he would have to ask the village if it had any spare cloth to put behind his mask. He carried with him the gunjeon to afford even such a small request.

Munsang almost instinctively hit himself. This idea had somehow not reached him earlier during his prior stint in the Astrals. Under His Majesty’s command, the district in which Hwangsorui sat was to be ruled directly by the crown, not administered by client states such as the Dongbu Kolkae. It was tiring to repeat such a policy to every village in the area, more so when these villages refused to submit under Ryeongsean law and customs, laws and customs observed elsewhere throughout the nation. Fortunately, Munsang had brought horses, men, and mammoths. Villages that did not wish to comply were simply moved elsewhere.

Needless to say, it was a messy process, chock-full of controversy and opposition. Understandably, many villages who did not want to be directly administered by the crown also did not want to be supplanted either. It even got violent a few times. Times that still haunted Munsang’s dreams. Even if a hundred villages either submitted peacefully or were moved with relative ease, is such a policy with Hwangsorui worth it if even one Goidelic village is razed to the ground and its inhabitants forced into exile?

“For the strategic defense of the Ryeongsean Astrals and Perennials,” Munsang repeated those words from Byeolsan to himself under his mask. He scoffed silently.

Still, for whatever reason, the chiefdoms of Moi, Teonrahan, Ballahadurin, and Kaejuraein were subjugated, rather than annexed directly into Ryeongse. Even if under the boot of Byeolsan, the Goidels in Ryeongse would largely be their own.

So said His Majesty himself.

The entourage now stood at the town’s entrance, their steeds plowing at the ground idly with their hooves. From the other side came the village chief, Manus MacCahan, and his Shinmyokko deputy, Botai Aenyeon. Munsang turned to face his escorts behind him and nodded, dismounting from his steed as the others followed. At once, stable hands rushed outside the gate and led the Ryeongsean party’s steeds inside.

Munsang dropped to a kneel, bowing his head before Manus, as the entourage behind him followed. Manus responded with a simple bow at the shoulders.

“Welcome to Moy, General,” Manus welcomed in Kostuan with a small smile. It felt feigned, but Munsang knew better than to say anything. Above all else, it was improper.

“Thank you, chieftain,” Munsang responded curtly, letting swing from his ear the baikhu mask, before standing from his kneel. “As the royal messengers have notified, I have come to discuss logistics concerning inter-fortress transport and communications. I was hoping that you and your domain would assist in this manner.”

Manus huffed. “I received no messengers.”

Munsang subtly pressed his lips together. Despite the mountain air, Munsang felt as if he were drowning in the heavy, awkward atmosphere. “Well,” he inhaled, “I sincerely apologize for the mishap in communication. As this would now, I suppose, be your first time hearing of the royal project, I will return to Hwangsorui to check up on you later, then.”

“That would be appreciated,” Manus narrowed his eyes, his hospitality reserved purely in his words, with nothing else to show it. “Such a project would expend several perceivably unnecessary hours, manpower, and expenses.”

“Much of the project’s manpower and all of its expenses are to be covered by Byeolsan, Chief MacCahan,” Munsang replied. “All we ask of you is your time and knowledge of the land. In return, we will grant the Moy Chiefdom a tax break and a large sum of gunjeon.”

“And you suppose you can waive our conscience in desecrating our sacred grounds for your little play castle?” Manus scoffed. Munsang was stunned. Aenyeon cleared her throat and nudged at Manus’ shoulder. “What?” Manus burst through clenched teeth.

Aenyeon whispered something into Manus’ ear, in the tongue of the Goidels. It sounded like a jumble of alien syllables to Munsang, anyway. Perhaps Gogwihan-eo sounded foreign to them as well. Especially with more Ryeongseans about the Goidelic lands of Dongbu Kolkae.

Manus sighed. “Forgive me for the outburst,” he bowed feebly at the head. Still, no sign of anything indicating remorse. “Allow me to host you and your party for at least a night or two.”

Tense as the situation was already, Munsang knew better than to refuse. He was as exhausted as a donkey’s foal-turned-Geomnaeajin steed. “Thank you for the offer, Chief MacCahan.” He bowed professionally at the waist, as did his silent entourage.

Manus grumbled something to himself and turned towards the village, muttering something to Aenyeon before he walked further down the village path.

“Whatever you said, thanks,” Munsang half-smiled in weary gratitude to Aenyeon, in Gogwihan-eo.

“Do not use the Tongue of the North as if we are blood,” Aenyeon spat back, in a heavily Goidelicized dialect of Gogiwhan-eo. “It is proper for the chief to host guests that approach the steps of the village in goodwill,” Aenyeon continued, in Kostuan. “It is my duty to remind the chief of these customs. Our customs.”

Munsang sighed. What an odd woman. Were all Shinmyokko like this? Were all Goidelic Shinmyokko like this?

“Anyway, you all follow me,” the deputy announced to the Ryeongsean party. “I’ll lead you to your stay for the night.” She turned and followed Manus. Munsang repeated her words in Gogwihan-eo and followed.

What an odd people, the Goidels. The oddest were the ones that looked just like Ryeongseans.

{{==========}}

Dongbu Kolkaeguk, the Chiefdom of Moy, the MacCahan Residence

It was the screaming that woke Manus up first. As he shot up from his bed, he then noticed the amber flames outside his window, seething furiously throughout his pasture.

The pasture!

With barely any regard to his own clothes, Manus hastily swung on a cuirass and slid gauntlets over his nightwear, grabbing his longsword as he bolted out the door.

The village was on fire. Rows of thatched roofs were set ablaze, with infernos blitzing about the wood and straw of Moy’s residences. But something was off. Manus noticed bodies lying strewn about the town square, not burnt but stabbed and sliced.

“Boss!” Einneane scrambled up to him, sword in hand. She apparently had some time to dress in her gallowglass gear, save her helmet. Coincidentally, a steady flow of blood painted her face deep red, from her temple to her chin. “It’s a woodkern raid! They’ve gone now, but the village is still on fire!”

“Our guests!?” Manus had to shout above the chaos. Men, women, and children were screaming, crying at the loss of their homes, their loved ones, their own lives.

“They’re helping with the fire!” Einneane responded, having to shout as well. Tears mixed with the blood on her face. It was not just for the volume that Einneane shouted.

Manus took his deputy by the shoulders, towering over the smaller woman. “Relax. You’re my deputy. Get your head in the game, and organize every able-bodied person to contain the fire. Evacuate and rescue all that you can.

Einneane bit her lip in determination. “Yes, boss,” she responded in fierce acknowledgement.

Manus smiled as Einneane nodded and darted away, immediately barking at panicked villagers. The wound looked horrid, but nothing of the sort could ever stop her.

A bellowing trumpet pierced the deathly air. Manus whipped his soot-covered head around to see Ryeongsean mammoth mounts riding into the town square, Ziist mages on their backs. With trunks the size of logs, the mammoths, prompted by their drivers, lift boulders, trees, and wreckage, rescuing trapped villagers and using the material to block the fire’s advance. The mages on mammothback appeared to focus, meditating while standing, and then unleashed a unified torrent from their hands, quenching rampant flames with a deafening hiss.

“Finally! Took you guys long enough!” Manus heard Munsang shout in his native tongue. The Ryeongsean commander dashed over to the disaster control reinforcements, saying more stuff in Hyannic. Manus frowned. It infuriated him, the thought of the Ryeongseans coming to handle a Goidelic problem. As if interjecting their martial noses into the Astrals and Perennials did not suffice, now they had to offer a condescending hand of saving. Who asked them to save the lives of the Goidels?

Still, Manus’ rage could not last. It fizzled just like the flames the Ryeongseans and Goidels, hand in hand, were extinguishing. How could he retain his anger against those who saved the lives of his people?

{{==========}}

Munsang followed Aenyeon’s outstretched point to the MacCahan residence. It was morning. The last traces of the fire died down as Goidels and Ryeongseans murmured, whispers nearly drowned by the sub-Eternal winds.

The MacCahan residence had been scorched horrendously, but much of its structure remained intact. It was the pasture behind it that saw the brunt of the damage. Half of the fencing was burnt clean off Arkonos. Munsang clambered over the remains of a gate to where Manus sat, on an unburnt stump. Silently, he took the chieftain’s side, sitting down on the charred grass, following Manus’ absent eyes towards the pasture, dotted with blackened grass and yyaka corpses. Some burnt. Some stabbed.

“I wasn’t raising them for money,” Manus sighed coldly in Kostuan, toying with a twig in his bearpaw hands. “My father had raised this herd. He inherited it from his.”

“We’re working with the people of your village to gather where they went and exact the damages done to the village,” Munsang reported solemnly in Kostuan too. Manus sat silently, exhaling bitterly before fumbling with his twig again. “I’m sorry for your herd.” Munsang turned to Manus, looking the massive Goidel in his eyes.

“No, forgive me. I’m like this over a bunch of animals,” Manus scoffed at himself, shaking his head in self-derision.

“Don’t be like that,” Munsang interjected softly. “When you put care into raising animals, losing them is much harder than we like to admit.” Manus’ silence seemed to ask Munsang to continue. He obliged, taking a controlled yet shaky breath. “It was two years ago and the Kingdom of Ryeongse was dealing with an insurrection started by the deposed khan who ruled prior to His Majesty. His followers seized Malpyeoro, where I was stationed. Jailed me and destroyed a water clock my father gave me as a present. They killed my horse and my pigs.”

Manus chuckled a bit. “Forgive me, but I never took you for the farmhand type.”

Munsang laughed in response. “Neither did I, until my father and brother got me my first boar and sow. I always had a knack for horses, but pigs were something else. Always made a mess but seemed to take care of their hygiene pretty well. Still, raising them was hard work. At first, I could only manage to do so by thinking of how good they’d taste once they got all nice and fat.”

Manus chuckled some more.

“I fell in love with them, eventually. I couldn’t bear the thought of eating them at some point. I had no problem with eating other pigs, or other animals, but not mine. They were like…”

“Family,” Manus finished the sentence.

Munsang nodded slowly, eyes cast to the ground. “Yeah.”

“General?” a voice called in Gogwihan-eo from behind the two.

Munsang and Manus turned around. It was a Ryeongsean captain, accompanied by Aenyeon. “We found the woodkerns,” the captain continued. “They’re retreating to Biyeokul Pass.”

“That’s only two horsepaces away,” Munsang pondered in Gogwihan-eo as well. He stood at once. “If we mobilize now and head out, we can still catch them in the wooded valley.” He looked to the village, seeing Ryeongsean troops, mages, and mammoths about the village. “Gather up the men and get them to Biyeokul. We can catch them there and get the drop on them. The Goidels can stay and continue village repairs while we’re out.”

“I don’t consider myself too knowledgeable on the Hyannic tongue, but if you’re telling us to stay put, that’s something that I’m going to have to disobey,” Manus growled, standing, towering over Munhan. Munhan found himself taller than the average Ryeongsean. Manus was a giant. He could pass as one.

“With all due respect,” Munsang sighed in Kostuan, “His Majesty’s Army has this handled.”

With all due respect,” Manus spat Munsang’s words back at him, “they raided my village, killed my people, and they killed. My. Yyaka! I cannot sit by and watch my pride, my honor be stricken away by you lot. My sword thirsts for their blood.”

Munsang could not help but break a smile. He knew Manus’ feeling well. “Alright, then join up with the Hasanajin and Hyeongshinjo divisions. We move when we can.”

Manus nodded. “Yes, General,” he responded, before striding out of his pasture and yelling melodramatically at some idle gallowglasses.

“What happened to him?” Munsang joked to Aenyeon.

Aenyeon smiled. “Despite how the Boss doesn’t much like Ryeongseans, I guess he’s happy that you’re permitting him to fight with you,” she answered in Kostuan. “That you’re fighting with him. It’s something we Goidels take to heart: loyalty and friendship to exact revenge upon evil.”

“Hm.” Munsang scrunched his eyebrows. “But you’re Shinmyokko, aren’t you?”

“I am,” Aenyeon defiantly responded. “I’m a Shinmyokko Goidel. Being Goidelic has nothing to do with where you came from, Hyan or elsewhere. It’s a matter of making their traditions your own. Their way of life, your own. Whether you spent generations as Goidels, like my family, or you find us in your ‘settlement’ here.”

Munsang nodded in acknowledgement. “I see. Sorry for being a bit… presumptive earlier.” He scratched the back of his head, something made even more awkward by his helmet blocking it.

Aenyeon smirked. “No problem. Let’s get going. Boss has a pasture to avenge.”

{{==========}}

Dongbu Kolkaeguk, Biyeokul Pass

Fiachadh stuffed a roll of cloth into his mouth to muffle his breathing. The sun beamed harmlessly upon the treetops of the forest he and the band of woodkerns were hiding in. It was quiet. The blood roaring in his ears was deafening.

His back against a large pine tree, he clutched at his chest a long dagger. He was terrified. The dagger rattled in his trembling hand. Fiachadh pressed his hand tighter to his chest, the dagger’s side flush against his chainmail armor.

The entirety of the rear guard had disappeared by the time the majority had made it into the forest. The Ryeongseans and Moy were here, and they were coming for him and his brethren, pressed up against trees, rocks, and logs nearby, waiting for when they would come. The question was, then, when?

When would they come?

When?

A soft hiss slowly pervaded the forest. Mist enveloped the area.

“They got mages!” one of the woodkerns cried out in fear. The mist chased about the forest floor, and suddenly Fiachadh saw nothing but white haze not even his arm’s length away.

His comrades screamed. One by one. Less panicked breathing. More silence.

Then he saw him. The chief. The giant of a man charged straight at Fiachadh, longsword in hand.

He was too fast. Fiachadh lost the strength to continue holding his dagger, both hands instead going to his stomach, where the chief of Moy had impaled him with his blade, pinning him to the tree behind him.

“Kill my yyaka, would you?” the chief sneered in Goidelic, spitting on Fiachadh’s face. The repulsive moisture would be the last thing Fiachadh would perceive as all went dark.

Uyuti, Corcaigh mor, Aelythium, Riddenheim, and 2 othersSyrduria, and Eskeland

An Introduction to Lullubum, a Southerly People, a Southerly Nation, and a Southerly State.
A Work by Semeillon Swevaro.

Across the totality of the continent of Sokos, there are myriad civilisations, host to many different races, of many different cultures, faiths, predispositions and host to individuals with all sorts of fascinating personalities. However, one amongst my many favourite realms has to undeniably be Lullubum. One of the many statelets smattered on the wall of the political world by the Kostuan Empires explosive spasming death.
This former subjugation to Kostua is ever present in their society. Not through how much of Kostuan civilisation they attempt to emulate, but through how desperately and intrinsically they attempt to contradict their former overlords.
Within the lands of the Lullubites any person can take possession of lands and holdings regardless of birth. So long as you can take something and hold it, it would be considered yours by law. The control over lands and societal progression isn’t a field near entirely reserved for landed aristocrats. Lullubums of any societal standing can be landowners, Lullubums of any descent can achieve a place in society above that which they were born to, through education and dedicated loyalty to the Grand Duke anyone can find a position in the Bureaucracy. This characterises Lullubum as a pragmatic and impartial society, maintaining a long tradition of bureaucracy.
Alongside this long tradition of bureaucracy, so too is there one of philosophy and learning. With the ruling Siranet Dynasty having long maintained a philosophical college on the grounds of the royal palace. A college that I know from experience, is a mature place of high learning. Being host to a collection treatises and books alongside philosophical schools of myriad justification and espousals, from literature such as “The Kostuan Faith and Demons, Their Heaven is Our Hell?” to an interesting philosophical lecture I attended that espoused the eating of nothing but vegetables and other such resources grown from the ground, as opposed to eating meats. However, it must be noted that alongside their philosophy is a healthy helping of hypocrisy, just ask a Lullubite the difference between their Grand Duke and the aristocrats of Kostua, and they'll develop a philosophical seperation between the inherited powers of the dukes and those of the historical dynasties of Kostua on the spot, regardless of previously espoused views on living in a "Purely meritocratic society."
All the information above might counteract some expectations one would have for a state in Lullubums situation. A realm that is on near all sides endangered. To the north, recent incursions onto southern Sokos by Eskelanders threaten the realms sovereignty. While to the west, Namalar is differently depending on who you ask, the divide in opinion is primarily between those who view Namalar as the ultimate exterminators of the Kostuans and therefore warranting thanks and praise, and those who view Namalar as being a shadow of the Kostuan Empire, an entity that could at any moment become as those they once obliterated. And to the south and west, the Black Fault, the wounds carved through reality by the Demon Emperor Cartagia, forced Lullubum to, for a time confront constant demonic incursion. However, it should also be considered how the borders with Eskeland are a vital highway for trade, unobstructed by the wider stretches of the Black Fault that stretch to the east and west, how Namalar is widely lauded as a obliterator of the evil Kostuans by an indismissable margin of the population, and that the Black Fault itself has been tempered over the centuries, until only the rare demon, such as the beast that famously mutilated the Grand Duke Peithon, (And perhaps gave him Tara?) can properly be compared to those that first wrought terror upon Sokos.
As such, perhaps a peaceful bureaucratic realm, abstained for a long time from global politics, might not be too out of place in the geographical and geopolitical space occupied by Lullubum.
Yet, this is but an introduction to Lullubum, and to what I hope (perhaps rather over-ambitiously) might be a seminal work in understanding Southern Sokos beyond the well storied realms of the Elves and of Namalar and Rolais.

Uyuti and Eskeland

The Blood of Dragons

The ancient history of the khemakh tribes that lived in the lands now dominated by the Black Fault is a history that is known to none, carried only in oral stories that were lost when the Kostuan empire conquered their lands some time around 400 BTF during their territorial and economic peak. Members of the khemakh tribes that weren’t outright massacred were taken as slaves, either as gem miners or labourers for the construction of the city of Haspela and the imperial highway that runs along the southern coast of Sokos.

The khemakh continued a miserable existence as slaves for 400 years during which their culture began to adopt some values of Kostuan culture, most notably polygamous marriages and the forming of the organized Kathana faith that drew from the longstanding practises of khemakh tribes. The local Kathana was able to coexist alongside the mainstream Kostuan faith, its own smaller pantheon of spirits having their place among countless other foreign deities in the Star Court. Kathana quickly grew popular among the khemakh slaves, it built the framework for a common Thayyae identity among the slaves whos heritage belonged to different tribes, and provided a way for them to reconnect with their longstanding tribal practises while they were away from their homes in a way that was institutionalized and facilitated by their Kostuan overlords.

Resentment and hatred had grown and festered like a hideous, gnarled weed among the Thayyae slaves over centuries of enslavement and cruelty. This weed was fertilised by the empire’s slow meandering death and their forced conscription in the armies of the local Kostuan lords who sought their own freedom from a rotten empire, breaking away like so many other vassals. In 150 BTF, the region had gained independence from the empire, though the Khemakhs had not gained any for themselves. They were still slaves, they now belonged to a minority rule of the great grandsons of Kostua’s nobility.

When the black fault erupted from the depths of the world 150 years later, so too rebellion erupt from the khemakh slaves. The outpour of hellish abominations and otherworldly spawn to their north was a grave insult to the world and everything else in existence, and it cut deeply and severely among the superstitious khemakh population, motivating and fuelling the Thayyae rebellion. The bloody revolt began in 1 BTF and ended by the turn of the era as the khemakh majority were able to quickly outnumber the remnant Kostuan rulers.

And as the blood of their human lords stained the streets of Haspela that their ancestors had built in chains centuries ago, they knew what freedom truely felt like.

Uyuti and Eskeland

Lullubum

The Adjudication of the Masked Duke

A buzz of material, like sand going through an hourglass erupts in his ears. Throughout his body material was shifting about in a flurry of movement beneath the hardened layer of ash that made up his skin. He felt each and every individual grain as rub against everything that made up his physical person.

This, as he had identified long ago, is how he felt Irritation. An apt emotion he thought, as the courts proceedings had gone on for nigh on seven hours. This one case alone, consuming approximately one fourth of that time.
When he had only just been reborn, he had felt so energised. Yet now the inane prattling of his subjects, issues that, even when resolved, are simply usurped by some new scuffle over whatever inane object they could possibly justifying seeking ducal adjudication for. Why, earlier that day he had to make a ruling on the possession of a pen, not even a particularly rare pen, just a completely normal feathered pen derived from a common Lullubum Flamingo. It was certainly fabulous and he had inquired into where to get one, both for the person who had taken the original flamingo pen, and for himself. Yet still the inanity was mind rending.

This case was for land. Two peasants from the south, scuffling over who could plant and harvest their crops where, even though their lands had been specifically demarcated in a previous dispute he had overseen not even five years ago.
Leaning forwards onto his knee, Grand Duke Peithon Siranet of Lullubum had begun to tire of the landholders prattling.
“So, Agryphon’s grains keep taking root in your cabbage patch, and despite you’re constant destruction of those crops, tearing them out, “root and stem” in your own words, they continually regrow, even seasons apart?” He asked, his voice echoing through the shaped clay mouth of his face.

“Yes my liege, I swear no matter what I do his glorified weeds will find a way to take root in my gardens. Yet no matter my efforts, he DARES, to claim that I in any way owe him compensation for wasting my time and energy having to destroy crops spread from his lands to mine.” The lesser landholder, Hereclid, a man of little means beyond those lands he directly owns, points accusatorily at his nemesis. Agryphon, a wealthier, and from what little Peithon had seen of him, more intelligent landholder, who had been able to accrue greater and greater quantities of land over the past decade.
Soon they once more fall to bickering and gesturing.

Looking through the reports of his Bailiff in the region. Peithon couldn’t help but note how many of the circumstances reported were similar in nature to the one he now had to adjudicate. Agryphon’s crop would spread beyond the boundaries of his lands, those who’s lands his crops spread to would either destroy or harvest the excess crops, and he would demand a Bailiff adjudicate matters and would usually demand slices of his neighbours lands as compensation. Peithon saw one variation however, over the years it would seem Agryphon had become more and more ambitious, until todays rather blatant land grab.

“Agryphon…” A low voice rumbled, tinged with a low electrical buzz.

“Y-yes my duke.” Agryphon is jolted from the verbal tussle by his lieges words.

“Might I ask, how much of Hereclid’s property your crop has spread to? As you seek to claim all lands where your crop has taken root, it is of course necessary for me to have an approximation of how significant this transferal of lands has been.”

Hereclid, the defendant, speaks up. “A third of an entire field, spreading even into my own household gardens.”

“Ah, a third, this would be your greatest… claim, yet, Agryphon.” Adjusting his hands, so as to place the one of the Bailiffs reports, he read off it as though it were a list of crimes.

“One tenth, one eighth, one sixth and now one third of land all procured by you in similar circumstances over the past decade.”

Agryphon, quickly recognising that the trial wasn’t going in his direction, attempted to back away.
“Guards, seize him.” With a wave of his hand, a number of guards that had previously been slackening, bored at the length of the present hearing, let alone the hours of hearings that had drawn out all morning and a good bit into the afternoon, erupted from their posts to apprehend Agryphon before he could make their day harder with a chase.

Peithon continued when a guard, now having forced Agryohon’s hands behind his back, nodded to him. “All previous cases that resulted in the transitioning of lands from defendants to Agryphon are hereby annulled, the landowner who had a sixth of their land deprived of them through fraud is to be compensated by Agryphon’s own labour, with the same to be done to the third of Hereclid’s lands. Any slackening in these obligations can and will undoubtably result in Hereclid’s immediate coming forwards to any responsible authorities.”

Hereclid, still in shock as he just watched his neighbour manhandled, stuttered out a question. “A-and what of the c-crops that took root in my lands? My liege”

Peithon, for a brief moment considering the question, responded dismissively. “I wouldn’t think we need bother you with having to once more obliterate such a fine crop. It’s yours to do with as you wish. Harvest, uproot or just let it be fodder for animals. It’s of no matter to me, nor Agryphon now.” Letting out a long sigh, as though the closing of court were as much a relief for him as the resolution of the dispute was for Hereclid. “Court dismissed, I will have a messenger distribute my ruling to your localities bailiffs so as to ensure the ruling is properly followed."

Peithon stood up from his throne. The finality of the action punctuated the flurry of movement as courtiers retired for the day, as the fraudulent Agryphon was dragged out of the room, tailed closely by a gloating Hereclid. Peithon remained standing, near frozen at the base of the ducal throne as he watched the flurry of activity.
He pondered, as he usually does, what he should do now that court was out. He couldn’t really decide on what to do. Considering the mask strapped to his face, he wondered if he could engage in any of the less than scrupulous activities he once did while… truly alive. When he was a man of flesh and bone and not one of stone, ash and magic. No, despite what his old friends had called a "Brief period of shock, before the triumphant return of Peithon the Great to the brothels of the city." Even some 20 years after his reincarnation he had never found much interest in such... distractions.

Motioning to his personal guard, he retreated under armed escort away from the throne room and to the watergardens, he always found a sense of peace and calmness amongst those ever flowing pools and fountains, interspersed with river plants and illuminated on cloudless nights by the moon. Moreso then he ever could find in the choking darkness of his bed chamber.

Uyuti and Thayyae

Eskeland

Gone Missing

It was a windy day in Helsingstad, it had been snowing a lot in the past few days, the whole city was covered in white, the festivities had passed and everything was back to the way it was. Inside the castle was Mikhail, sitting in the ducal chair, he was bored. He had spent the past weeks drawing plans and talking out with people from all over the duchy, to join his supposed righteous cause. It was a tiring job. Now he laid there, pondering, about everything that had happened up to this point, he wasn't satisfied, but nothing was set in stone, he had a lot of work ahead of him, if he wanted to achieve his goal. He had the help of his loyal advisors who also had been hard working doing the menial tasks he would assign them. Many nobles had joined his cause, but everything was kept secret until the time to would come.

For the past few weeks he had been receiving letters from his sister in Vindheim, all asking about him and their mother's wellbeing, he had no choice but to lie, their mother was imprisoned, and he didn't want to alert anyone about it. Should anyone get hold of this, it would spell the end for him. But worst of all is that she kept asking when could she come to visit or if they could go and visit. Mikhail had nothing against his sister, he adored her very much and never ever wanted any harm done to her, that is why it pained him that he had to lie to her in such manner, but what had to be had to be done.

Remorse griped his heart every time he thought of her, but to distract himself from all of it, he usually would go out to spar a bit with Vidar, his second-in-command of sorts, he really didn't have such a duty, but his loyalty laid with him. That was exactly what Mikhail wanted to do, spar a little, unfortunately he couldn't find Vidar, he looked all over the castle and even asked the servants if anyone had seen him, "Where is he?" He whispered to himself. Suddenly the doors of the main hall opened and there he was, Vidar.

Vidar had previously left, to take care of business he had left pending a long time ago before leaving the country, and he was a man that would never leave anything unfinished. However it seems that it hadn't gone well for him this time as when he returned he seemed not satisfied with his results.

Mikhail was happy to see him, "Vidar, where were you? I've been looking all over for you, I want to spar a little with you, it's been a dreadfully boring day, and not to say that the castle life wasn't what I expected, rather boring really."

Vidar only looked at him a bit worried and with his deep coarse voice he spoke, "I'm sorry Misha, I had to take care of some... stuff, but here, one of the couriers told me to give you this letter, it's from your sister."

"I told you to not call me Misha." He said looking a bit angry, Vidar just laughed, "But give me that, let me see what she wants this time." He gave it a good look then sighed "Not again. Why do you have to bother so much sister. What I'm I going to do with you..." He closed the letter then sat on his chair, left hand on his chin, he began thinking of something.

"So? What does it say?" Asked Vidar.

"She is coming over, apparently she got tired of waiting for my answer and will be here in some days, I just don't know what to do, she can't find out."

"Maybe fake her disappearance? Tell her she's gone out to take care of some business days ago and you haven't seen her since." Said Vidar as he went off towards the kitchen to pick up some ale or mead to drink.

Mikhail just remained quiet, but he didn't find the idea bad, after some more thought, he decided to go with it. He wanted to make sure nothing could go wrong, so he ordered his guards to transfer his mother to another prison, for the duration his sister stay, he didn't want to lose her out of sight for much either. She would be sent to the prison in the East Tower, which not only served as a prison, but also an outpost for the troops and sometimes a toll pass for foreigners coming from the neighbouring Ryeongse. With everything set Mikhail only had to wait for her to come.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

A week later, the carriage of Irene, Mikhail's sister, had arrived in the city, she looked out the window to the city she was born in, and a hint of nostalgia hit her, that is why she was excited to see her brother, who she hadn't seen since he left and her mother, who she wanted to check on. She could see all the places she had been previous to her marriage, and all the places she loved to go when she was a little kid.

Once the carriage stopped in front of the castle, Mikhail came out to greet her. While it may not have seemed that way, he was very happy to see her, a tear almost coming down his eye. She was equally happy, a brother-sister reunion.

Some of the servants helped her with her stuff, and brought them to her room. Mikhail and Irene entered the castle, she hadn't seen it for a year, while not really that much time, for her it seemed like an eternity. She wondered why her mother didn't come to greet her and asked Mikhail, "Where is mother? I haven't seen her."

"Mother went out a few hours ago, she said she had an urgent matter to attend to, I don't know when she will come back, she never said either, but anyways, how was the trip? I am very happy to see you again sister, It's been ages."

"It has indeed, Mikhail" She said as look around in amazement, "Wow, what have you done to the castle? Look like new! Almost like the Royal Palace."

"I just order for it to be renovated, I can't believe how lazy and uncaring father was about this place"

Sadness overtook Irene's face at the mention of their father, Mikhail noticed, and to take her mind away from that, he showed her the way to her room. She was able to see all the changes done to the castle, like the fact that her chambers, weren't hers anymore, a small library now stood in its place, she would sleep in another room that was built specially for guests. Properly set in she would just spend a few days.

It was the evening, Mikhail and Irene where in the main hall, they had been spending time together, telling each other stories about themselves or things that have been happening. Irene kept asking the servants if her mother was back, but they kept telling her that she wasn't back yet. Irene grew worried, it was almost night time, and she still wasn't back, Mikhail just kept reassuring her that she would be back.

The night time came and Irene found out she hadn't come back yet, this made her even more worried, she should already be back, especially since she must have known she was coming to visit. Irene approached Mikhail in his chambers, she knocked the door, before entering, Mikhail stood from his chair and asked here what she wanted, "Sister, what is it, you look bad."

"I'm worried about mother, she isn't back yet, doesn't she know I was coming to visit?"

Mikhail put his hand on her shoulder ,"But of course she does, I told her, she was happy to greet you, she probably ran into an inconvenient or something, just go to your chambers and rest, she will be here by tomorrow"

Irene looked at him a smile on her face, "Alright Misha, but if she isn't back by tomorrow we are sending the guard to look for her"

Mikhail nodded and guided her out the door, he made sure she was gone, "Ugh, why does everyone keep calling me that name." He said sitting on his bed, rubbing his temples with his fingers as he sighed, he could feel the pressure amounting, however he just forgot about all that and went back to his desk to keep working on his stuff.

The next morning Mikhail woke up to the sound of someone knocking the door of his chambers, he got out from his bed, rubbing his eyes as he yawned. He opened the door, it was his sister, she was crying. Mikhail knew this was going to happen, he hugged her, and assured her a search party would be sent out to look for her, she thanked him, wiping the tears off her eyes. He told her to leave so he could get changed. Putting on his daily clothes, Mikhail went down to the barrack, Vidar was there, training the soldiers, he approached him with a paper on his hand and handed it to him "Vidar, take this, deliver it to the guards in the east tower. I also want you to do me a favour, I'm putting you in charge of the guard for now, my sister thinks mother is missing and wants a scouting party to look for her, I want you to make the guards look busy." Vidar nodded, and took some men with him before departing.

In the dining hall was Irene, playing around with her food, unable to eat it. Mikhail approached her, he sat down besides her, stroking her hair, "Come on, eat your food, it will get cold", she shook her head "Listen Irene, I think it would be best if you departed back to Vindheim, I don't think staying here will make you any good."

She shook her head again, "No, I want to stay and help look for her, she's my mother, I can't just leave and call it a day!"

Mikhail hid his desperation, he wanted to get rid of her as soon as possible, "Look, I think you're overreacting, she's been gone for only a day, maybe she's staying with one of her friends or perhaps she went out of the city."

"Without telling anyone or writing a letter?"

He shrugged, "Maybe she forgot?"

"She forgot. I can't believe this, mother is missing and I'm the only one worried about her? I don't see you worried, all you do is stay all that in that room of your doing who knows what, do you not care about mother?!" She looked at him with anger in her eyes, as if it was his fault.

Mikhail gritted his teeth, "Irene, calm down, I care about her as much as you do, even more, but you are just panicking at this point, so why don't you tone it down just a bit?"

Irene just looked in disbelief at his words, "I am panicking? I am panicking?!" She stood up and left, Mikhail went after her, following her around. Walking all over the castle, as he kept following her in secret, to calm herself down, going around all over the place, she entered the barrack, then the prison, Mikhail tensed up, nobody had cleaned their mothers cell, since no one was expecting anyone other than the guards to be there. Going through the cells she stumbled upon a very well outfitted one, curiosity overtook her as she entered to check it out, she saw all the very expensive furniture, which surprised her, what prisoner could warrant such a fashionable cell? She gave the room a more thorough look, opening the wardrobe and the drawer, a bunch of letters laid in inside, she opened one and read it, It was addressed to someone, but when she saw who wrote it she gasped.

Shocked by the contents of it, she quickly gathered all of them and exited the cell, but outside was Mikhail waiting, with two guards on each side of his, he ordered them to apprehend her, she tried to resist but couldn't, she looked at him in disgust as he took the letters off from her hands and ripped them apart, "I see you've found what happened to her, to bad I can't allow you to leave." Mikhail seemed conflicted "Sister, I wished you hadn't been this way, you should have left when I told you too, I don't want to do this to you."

"Where is mother?" It's the only thing she said to him.

"Don't worry about her Irene, she is fine, it pains me to tell you this, but you'll join her soon, I can't allow you to leave, I know you're just going to tell everyone and I can't allow it."

"Why are you doing this?" Tears falling down her eyes.

"I feel like this already happened... I won't tell you, guards take her away to the east tower, same thing as the other one, put them on different cells, but facing each other, also double the guard, here's my seal. Oh and wait, take her through the other route, I don't want anyone knowing of this." He dismissed them, as he looked at his sister with a pain in his heart. He had secretly loved his sister romantically, that is why he cared for her much, but he always kept it a secret since incest was viewed bad.

Mikhail left for the stables, he would ride his horse around the city until night-time. He wanted to clear his head off from all of this before he could resume his work, he was almost done with the planning of the next phase of his plan, which would be to proclaim the rebellion with all his most loyal followers, nobles and peasants alike , who would join his cause under his banner.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

A week later, in Vindheim, Axel was pacing all around his room. Even though he was a baron, he had no fief of his own, the only exception ever made in the history of the kingdom, he lived in a mansion, close to the castle. He was nervous, he was waiting for his wife to return, but no word yet, and she hadn't sent any letters, in case she had a delay or she decided to extend her visit. One of the servants tried to calm him down a bit, but to no avail, he was just too anxious.

In desperation he wrote a letter to send it to her, he handed it to one of his couriers to be delivered immediately to Helsingstad, or to her, if they encountered each other on the road, as fast as possible. At least this way he could have an answer. He tried to not over think it too much. He just sat on a chair, and took a sip of his tea.

The days would pass and he would receive no news, until one of his couriers came with a letter, a grim expression on his face, Axel didn't like what he was about to read, but he had to do it, the courier had not read it, but it seems like he was told in person. Axel gave it a look, although not as unsettling as he expected, it still left him without words. The letter, written personally by Mikhail, stated that she had left Helsingstad for Vindheim a week ago, and since then, no one has seen her.

This broke Axel, who was hoping for a positive answer. He would have to go the next day to the Count to petition for a searching party, then put up a reward for whoever could find her, since he had no fief other than a mansion, the guards were not under his control. Axel headed to his room, then locked the door, that night he would not eat his dinner nor sleep, only think. He spent the whole night thinking about her, even blaming himself for not going with her, but had stuff to do, and he couldn't simply leave them like that, he had no one else to do them for him.

He woke up the next day very early, ready to go to the Count. During the night he concluded that he would also join the search and would not stop until he found her, even if he didn't have the support of the Count.

At the castle he explained the situation to the count, after some very careful thinking and talking it with his council, he agreed, "Alright Axel, you have my, no, our support on the search, I will form a scouting party and first thing tomorrow morning will be to begin her search, but I don't know if it would be a good idea to have you join, the king would have my head if I allowed you to join and anything happened to you, have you talked to him about this?"

"No I have not, I was thinking of doing it, but I have no wish to bother my cousin for this, but I'm sure he will be fine with me joining, I assure you. Either case, should the need arise, I will ask him if more help as needed."

"Then very well, you can join them whenever you want, but you will lead it, and...look, if you need anything just ask, I understand your pain. " Said the Count as he gave him a seal, which allowed him to be in command of the troops.

"Thank you very much sir" He took the seal, then bowed and left. Tomorrow he would join the soldiers in the search for his wife, a look of satisfaction on his face. He had his servants pack everything he needed, this time he would not remain idle, he would join the soldiers and spend whatever time was need away from his home.

Uyuti, Aelythium, and Ryeongse

Meadows of Korbek
Copost written with Alvaringen

Prince Kristian observed his soldiers with a keen eye as he watched it set up camp for the night. The entire army appeared to be exhausted. Trees were chopped down slower than usual, it took a while for the fires to be lit, and many tents were pitched at a later time than normal. For the energetic and youthful Prince, such a sight was disheartening for him. And yet, even with the fatigue of his army clear as day, he still looked jubilant as ever. His commanders knew why. Day by day he had watched as his army succumbed more and more to its weaknesses. The constant marching, which had begun to take its toll even on Kristian himself, did not cease. The endless retreating had continued to put a damper on morale. The occasional skirmishes with the Syrds had only delayed what seemed to be the inevitable—either the eventual destruction of Kristian’s army, or the abandonment and capture of Rupperstadt.

Past events, both within and outside the Hallish army, seemed to favour the former. As Hans Albrecht began to court the other Hallish states in an attempt to bring them together in one great alliance, the state of constant retreat that had possessed Kristian’s army no longer fitted the Duke’s purposes. Whereas before during his command of the army Hans Albrecht had always stressed caution above all else, now that he was removed from all military matters he could only express disappointment in Kristian’s actions, being unable to make sense of it. This retreat was damaging his reputation, or so he thought—if he was to bring the Hallish together, defiance against the Syrds had to be shown. Using the same rhetoric that Kristian had spouted just before the Battle of Aimerbühl, the Duke of Korbek now pressured his son to face the Syrds letter after letter.

The Duke’s court at Rupperstadt was in a similar temperament. Why didn’t they just turn back and make battle against Duke Martyn? Why did they remain in retreat? These questions dominated the conversations of the noble social circles in Rupperstadt. Yet despite all the mounting pressure, and his own brash beliefs, Kristian showed restraint. Losing himself in the affairs of the army, he took heed of his commanders and their opinions—and they all agreed that battle was far too risky. In the weeks after Braddau, the army continued its retreat towards Rupperstadt. Despite Hans Albrecht’s dissatisfaction, Kristian continued to avoid any real engagement. Even when the Duke sent a token force of mercenaries to help the army, battle was still not fought.

Yet for all these supposed failures and signs of cowardice from Kristian and his commanders, their patience had appeared to prevail. Even with the supposedly humiliating retreat, Hans Albrecht still scored his diplomatic victory at Grafsburg. The new ‘Hallish League’ as it was called by some, now promised to grant succour to the Prince’s beleaguered force. Even though some of the Hallish states still showed timidness, the Duke of Korbek was now sure that help was on its way to the army. And with that Kristian’s retreat no longer was a humiliation for the Duke. Now it became a matter of crucial importance that the Prince remain on the retreat until help reached him. With that new information provided to him by his father, Kristian pressed on.

Help was indeed on its way. It was Alvaringen who had taken up arms against the Syrds and assumed the mantle of Kristian’s salvation. The force sent by the Countess, led by her Constable, now marched south from the County towards Kristian and the Syrdish army. The Hallish prince continued his retreat eastward for a while, towards Rupperstadt, but as late autumn neared he made a sudden movement to the northeast, hoping to bring himself closer to the Alvarish. The Syrds took a parallel path, shadowing Kristian’s movements as always, for another two weeks. In those two weeks efforts by the Syrds to catch and destroy the Prince’s army also escalated—skirmishes between the two armies became more frequent and deadly. Perhaps Duke Martyn’s force had realised the danger that they now stood should Kristian meet with Alvaringen. Yet for all their exasperated attempts to catch the Hallish, the skirmishes only resulted in further beleaguerment on both sides. And with every passing day, Kristian drew nearer to the Alvarish.

On the 27th of Anemov, the army of Korbek came to a halt for the night. As always, trees were chopped down, tents were set up, and fires were lit, though as Kristian had noticed, all this was done at a slower pace than before. Sentries were set out to guard the camp, and the soldiers rested for the night, eager to get as much sleep as possible before first light tomorrow, where they would be back on the march again. Prince Kristian, however, did not go to sleep. Rather, he remained pacing up and down the camp, a cold and impatient expression on his face. Every now and then he would look to the soldiers around him and give them words of encouragement, but soon he would be back in that state of impatient waiting. Every now and then one of his aide-de-camps or commanders would walk up to him, and his face would temporarily light up with excitement, before settling back down again. Evidently he was waiting for something specific, and none of the men who spoke with him that night gave it.

Even after the sun had disappeared off the horizon and most of the soldiers had fallen asleep, Kristian did not withdraw to his tent. He remained regrettably awake, waiting for something that never came. Only when one of his aides came up to him, informed him that it was almost midnight, and suggested that he get some sleep for tomorrow, did he finally give up and go to bed, a beleaguered and disappointed expression on his face, one that could’ve represented the whole army. The Prince was comforted only by the notion that whatever his men were experiencing, the Syrds were also undergoing, perhaps even twofold. It was that notion, and the fact that he was so close to his supposed salvation, that allowed Prince Kristian to wear a faint smile on his face the next morning.

That morning the army was back on the march, as wagons, horses and men dragged themselves along an old Kostuan road. The Prince, now mounted atop his chestnut horse, and wearing a great steel suit of armour, still frequently received his commanders, aides and scouts, hearing their reports and issuing out orders concerning supplies, which roads to take, the equipment of his men and so on and so forth. Yet in his face there still lingered that expression of impatience—clearly he was still waiting for something.

A few hours into the morning, that something came. On his aides, a stout and imposing man named Ludolf Rüscher, rode up to the Prince. His great presence, towering over even Kristian himself, was contrasted by the man’s humble and even timid attitude. He greeted his lord with humility, giving a deep and shaky bow. Hailing Kristian with the words “Your Grace!”, he exchanged a few words of pleasantry with him, before the Prince quickly turned the conversation to the matter at hand.

“You bring news for me, yes? Then go ahead and say it, and leave no detail behind.” He said to his aide. Ludolf gave a quick smile upon hearing Kristian’s words, and soon started speaking.

“Your Grace, scouts have reported that the Alvarish army is just a few miles away. We have reached them at last.” He answered quickly. Kristian’s expression of impatient waiting instantly vanished, and he visibly lit up with excitement.

“Then let us go meet them!” He exclaimed, a wide smile appearing across his face. Fetching the most prestigious of his nobles, the best of his commanders, and the aides whom he knew well, the Prince set out with a small vanguard to meet the Alvarish army and its leader.

Across the flat field and forest lanes of Alvaringen and Hallish Syrduria, the army of Saint Alvar marched. Knights mounted on steeds draped with armor and heavy caparisons trotted slowly ahead, a steady but slow pace marked by periods of resting as the army stuck camp each night and resumed their movements only after breakfast and prayers. Ranks of retainers followed each nobleman into the campaign; mounted sergeants and men-at-arms followed proudly on their lordly-loaned horses, bearing the banners and heraldic arms of their masters. Then infantry marched behind, not in lockstep, but in a fashion similar to merchants and travelers journeying between cities. They folded in on themselves many times, with the traveling army stretched far in line; it was a disorderly mess, with mounted knights dotted along the entire caravan of soldiers and baggage train. The ranks of men stretched for miles, like a nomadic clan venturing for better lands. They walked at their own pace; those who grew tired rested for moments before rejoining the march, causing the campaigners to slither like a snake along the winding, country paths.

Disorganized described the whole affair. The army of Alvaringen was portly and proud. Its knights esteemed and yet disinterested in regimented movement and orderly conduct. They moved as hundreds of small units—not as an army—and chose to rest only when the majority of lords convened and reached a consensus. There was no haste in their movements. The journey out of Alvaringen was not long, and yet it took months of preparation for them to even leave the borders. The Countess gave the command to summon the levies, and for the Constable to organize the war effort. Letters and riders went as far as the forested hinterland of Alvaringen. Bearers of the Countess’ Word rode into Aldenstein and war-torn Mauling; they rode to Albrück and Bardstadt, where the great smithies began to turn out weapons of war for a clientele suddenly given work; even in Räubershagen and Marihald the call to arms was given, and the local lords turned from criminal slayings to killing in the name of Alvar and the Greatest.

This grand host, though all Alvarish, was disparate and uncertain, and months passed before the banners finally were flown over Alvaringen and the army formally consolidated and marched from Eidkirch to conduct war. Other bands, late to the gathering, joined them as they went, and the force soon comprised the comtial might as they crossed over the border.

Though it was difficult to say they had one leader, the Lord Rechimund von Regsau was the Constable of the realm, and held the authority of the Countess in her absence. This gave him a great degree of respect and authority over the masses of noblemen, but they were not tamed and whipped to his word. The Alvarish were plagued with noble privilege and old traditions, and the composition of an army was no different. Each lord and his retinue had a right to order themselves and determine their own conduct, and Rechimund was held captive to an audience of his peers who brought the majority of the forces he now wielded.

The graying haired Rechimund was accustomed to this. He had dealt with such matters for most of his life, and learned from his father, the late hereditary constable, of the matters of state and life. His family had led the armies through wicked times of insurrection and bloodshed in Alvaringen, and he had his own fair share of turmoil under Konrad. Things were now different, he could not deny. Whereas before Konrad was a comrade-in-arms and took a strong interest in the matters of the army and the martial strength of the realm, his daughter did not. Anna Katherein was a woman, and so incapable of leading or managing armies. She did not find interest in such discussions, and chose to take Rechimund at his word. This of course gave him a great deal of power, and he prospered under her as compared to the more controlling, observant Konrad, but it left him stressed and wheeling from pressure. He had no assistance from the court anymore. The Countess merely gave him requests and demands and expected him to carry them out.

Since her rise to power, this was the first true challenge of the county. Rechimund felt as if he had returned to boyhood; uncertainty and anxiety filled his decisions, and he found it difficult to keep a cool head during the evening discussions at the commander’s tent.

Today, at least, the restlessness of the army was solved. Two of his scouts reported back, the men riding along the flanks of the army in rapid speed as they brought important word. Dressed in the liveries of the Regsau family, the two scouts explained that they had sighted an army and a delegation from them—a moment of discussion among the noblemen and scouts’ descriptions determined it as Korbek’s Hallish army. Cheers and jubilation erupted from the men as they were greatly pleased to have reached their allies, certainly as it seemed in time to assist them before they were utterly destroyed. Prayers to the Greatest, and thanks to Saint Alvar where ushered up as Rechimund felt a tinge of relief shoot up his spine.

Looking to his peers, the Constable spoke to the barons Jan Reichart and Burchard von Rundkopf, who had gathered around him upon hearing of the noise, and to young nobleman Robin von Hochdorf, who was the son of the Chamberlain and represented his people.

“Look now!” He said, gesturing with an armored hand and pointing down the road. There was an air of authority and certainty about him now, as if news of the ducal army had renewed him. “The Greatest has seen to us reaching Albrecht’s army, and now we will save his son and turn those Syrdish bastards back!”

The proclamation gave rise to a chorus of ‘hear, hear’ from the trio, and Burchard spoke up shortly after.

“We should strike camp then. No point marching any further if he’s coming to speak with us. We could use rest before battle.”

“I agree with master Burchard.” Robin added, the young man wishing to show his own independence but also confer to the suggestions of his elders. His position as the chamberlain’s eldest son gave him enough respect, but he wished to add to his own experiences and connections along the campaign.

Rechimund slowly nodded. “Aye, that we should. Jan, shall you see to organizing pickets from your men; I wish for us to not be come upon by surprise.”

Jan placed a hand to his breast and turned his steed, the plate-armored man riding down the row of men with his visor held open, yelling to his own soldiers and knights.

As he departed, Rechimund looked about himself for a second, watching as the army continued its thoroughfare, many of the footmen ambling past him and the two other noblemen.

“Strike camp!” He shouted out. The soldiers beside him heard the order and repeated it.

“Strike camp! Strike camp! Camp! Camp!” The shouts reverberated down the path, and the baron watched for a spell as the soldiers offloaded their cargo and traveling sacks, and the shouting continued on down until the baggage trains came to rest and the camp followers started their routine.

Just an hour later, the colourful banner of the Von Horstads was sighted down the road. In the crowd of riders that slowly approached the Alvarish camp, Kristian’s banner stood centrepiece and was easily identifiable, but it was just one part of a mass of colourful flags that fluttered back and forth in the wind. Riding up to the camp in the same chestnut horse and in the same suit of armour, Kristian adorned his hat with a great black chaperon. The nobles, aides, valets, that he had brought with him all wore a similar mix of armour and opulent clothing, hoping to express both their focus on military affairs and their exorbitant wealth all in one go.

Riding slowly towards the Constable’s camp, the grand procession easily caught the sight of the Alvarish sentries and camp guards. Dithering for a moment before the borders of the camp, Kristian took a good look at his ally’s camp. Although somewhat disorganised, it was in truth no different to the Prince’s own army, whose feudal and old traditions still plagued it in each step of the march. But together, the two forces were numerous, and as he gazed at the knights of St. Alvar, he felt a growing confidence surge within him. As a faint smile appeared on his face yet again, he turned to the growing crowd of Alvarish soldiers that stood before him.

“Shall someone bring His Lordship Baron Rechimund? I have much to say to him. I am Prince Kristian von Horstad, son of His Grace Duke Hans Albrecht of Korbek. As commander of my father’s armies, I believe that I should speak to your leader, and soon at that.” He said, stealing a glance at the banner of his family, held proudly by his valet.

The Prince’s request was met promptly, as news of his arrival spread like wildfire through the camp. Numerous soldiers and knightly men peered from their tents and campfires, watching with distant interest at the man who commanded the Hallish warriors in the south. To them he was somewhat unseemly, not from fashion or look, but that he seemed much too young for such a responsibility. It was not a thought of disdain or disrespect that fluttered through the Alvarish ranks, but rather one of admiration; a prince having taken to martial duties, having it thrust upon him, yet accepting it with composure, was worthy of praise.

Constable Rechimund soon arrived. The older man stood at the forefront of a small gathering of nobles, various barons and esteemed knights who had accompanied him to speak with the Horstad scion. The sight was something reminiscent of a street gang; how the barons flocked about Rechimund, following his lead and yet wearing the airs of indignance and liberty. The posse of noblemen came to a halt just before the Prince, and Rechimund stood for scarcely a second in silence, his hand resting against the pommel and blue scabbard of his blade.

The Baron had the presence of a man seasoned by years of experience and hardship in his role. Graying hairs covered his head, which was cut short to not interfere with his helm. His face was clean shaven except for a mustache which was ragged and poorly groomed from the period of campaigning. Signs of stubble had already started, and it was easy to imagine that the man would return to Alvaringen a bearded figure, along with his beleaguered companions. His face was flushed red and his eyes narrowed, like little emeralds creeping towards slumber.

“‘Tis I.” He said plainly, then added, “An honor to meet you.”

Slowly, Rechimund bowed with his neck, showing a degree of deference and respect to the foreign Kristian. The other barons and noblemen in attendance did the same, and a number of the crowded onlookers lowered their gaze for a moment. It was less, for the Constable, a sign of respect for Kristian’s stature or rank, but instead the whole camp recognized at once his notoriety: the commander of the army that had dealt a blow to the Syrds.

Kristian’s procession answered the Alvarish greeting with an equal sign of respect, bowing their heads and making a show of respect to their saving grace. Kristian’s face was visibly teeming with excitement, the old expression of disappointment and exhaustion that he had carried yesterday having now disappeared completely. His companions bore similar expressions. There were growing smiles on each of their faces, as they relaxed themselves at the sight of the Alvarish army. The prince himself was jubilant, and for good reason—after two weeks of desperate marching to evade the Syrds, he had now reached his salvation—his prayers had been answered.

“The feeling is mutual, Baron Rechimund. I have long awaited your arrival, and at last we have met. Though it is a shame we must have our first meeting in such bellicose circumstances.” Greeted the Prince gleefully. He took another glance at the large crowd of soldiers around him, and felt reassured by their expressions of respect and recognition.

“It’s said that the true face of a man is revealed during strife. I cannot think of a better time or place for us to meet—we shall all soon become comrades through this struggle we share.”

Rechimund held his hands against his waist for a moment, then gesturing with a hand, called for Kristian and his men to accompany them further into the camp. As they walked to the pavilion where the Constable operated, Rechimund glanced beside where the Prince walked, and spoke.

“What’s the situation here? My scouts have not been effective outside of spotting your banners and the only news I have heard is that you bested the Syrdish army? I do not mean to disparage your command, but I doubt that is all the truth.”

“Bested would not be the correct term for that…unfortunately.” Began the Prince, a tinge of failing confidence in his tone as he tried to reassure his equal of everything that was going on. “Since this campaign began a few months ago, we have been in a state of near constant retreat, unable to match the Syrdish army in numbers. Some might call it dishonourable, but I assure you that in reality there was no other option for us. Ever since our defeat at Aimerbülh we have lacked the numbers to face King Karlus’ army, and ever since then every action and engagement against the Syrds has been well…a delaying battle.”

“The battle we fought at Braddau was another one of these delaying actions. Our brave men, fine soldiers the lot of them, held off the Syrdish army long enough for us to cross the Geber river in one piece. That bought us good and valuable time. But we were once again on the retreat, and we have remained as such up until today. That is the state of my army. Tired, but no doubt brave and still willing to fight. Sons of Korbek we are and will remain!” Explained Kristian, hoping to make up for the shameful recount of his army’s retreat with flattering descriptions of his soldiers.

As they reached the pavilion, and the Prince and Constable were ushered inside, the Baron of Mohnfeld, Robert Spaichingen, whom to his peers and countrymen was known as ‘Robert Breitkopf’ on the account of his appearance, added his own comment on the affair.

“If you’ve been on the run for so long, the Syrds don’t know to expect anything else. We’ll strike ‘em and take them by surprise, they won’t be ready.”

Though some of the other nobles in attendance muttered out either agreements or dissent with the man, Rechimund remained quiet as he crossed the center of the pavilion, passed the table, and came to a rest at his cushioned seat. He gestured to a chair across from him for Kristian to sit, and the others either found arrangements for themselves or stood.

“Och.” The Constable groaned, the short sputter betraying his inner thoughts as he leaned back on the chair, resting his hands on the arms.

“If you’ve been on the run,” he said now, sitting up straight, “then that must mean that the King’s army is nearby?”

It was a force of habit for the Constable to refer to Karlus as king, despite clearly being actively involved in the insurrection against him. Long had Alvaringen been either distantly loyal or loyally distant: the truth of the matter eluded Rechimund, and the nobleman made no attempt to determine it. His ultimate loyalties were for the Countess and his own lands.

“Indeed. The Syrds are nearby, dangerously so in fact, which is why, in my opinion, we should join our armies together as quickly as possible.” Answered Kristian, leaning back on his chair with a look of rising confidence. “I must say, however, that His Lordship here,” He continued, pointing to Robert Breitkopf, not knowing his name. “Has a sound idea. Combined, our armies outnumber the Syrds if I’m not mistaken. We may have at last good conditions to face Karlus’ army on the field. Do you all not think the same?”

Looking ahead of the nobles for a moment, Rechimund blinked slowly. “Send out orders to snuff the fires. No food to be served.” He commanded, looking to Robin, allowing the young man a chance to conduct orders.

As the youth departed quickly to give out the commands across the camp, the Constable leaned forward and placed his clasped hands on the table.

“Then this is what we must do.” He said, looking directly at Prince Kristian. “We set for a pitch and wait. Either they choose to attack, or they flee and we pursue them for a change. You know the lands better here, so I think it is best that you choose the field.”

“Aye, that is reasonable. I shall discuss with my scouts and commanders to try and find a nearby and suitable place to make battle. As said, we do outnumber them, but I do not believe that our foe will flee from battle.” Replied the Prince, almost gushing at the thought of another proper battle. “Perhaps then I should depart to meet back with my army and make the proper preparations, as should you.”

***
The Von Horstad banner fluttered back and forth in the rough morning wind. Prince Kristian stood by it, his eyes fixated on the rolling hills and fields that stood before him. His eyes darted from tree to tree and field to field, as he scanned his surroundings for anything that might suit him. Two days had passed since he had first met with Baron Rechimund, and in that time the joint Hallish armies, now moving as one, made ready for battle. Kristian, taking the leading role despite his youth and inexperience, had moved the army to a place that he and his scouts had deemed fit to fight the Syrds. There he now stood, his troops laid out before him, as he watched the still meadows and plains, with an increasingly anxious expression.

The Prince had moved his army just north of the small town of Creutzkirchen, a pleasant place, though soon to be marred by the upcoming battle. Surrounded on all sides by gentle hills and flat meadows, Kristian and his commanders saw it as a perfect area for the Hallish army. Here the great knights of St. Alvar and Korbek would thrive, as would their sergeants and men-at-arms. It was with this knowledge that Kristian commanded the combined Hallish army southwards to Creutzkirchen. In the span of one day, his beleaguered men, supplemented by the more fresh and energetic Alvarish, reached their destination. Making camp for the night, his men tried to sleep the best they could, aware that tomorrow could well bring victory—or defeat.

“Rüscher!” Cried out Prince Kristian, calling for his aide. The towering man soon rushed towards him, a smiling expression on his face, which gave his whole appearance an unpleasant look. The Prince was standing atop a small round hill, surrounded by his commanders and adjutants, who were all discussing amongst themselves, speaking only of the coming battle.

“Yes, Your Grace?” Said the aide.

“I want to make a last check of our positions and those of the enemy. I’d like you to ride with me. Bring Klemens as well.” Replied Kristian plainly. Rüscher gave a simple nod before returning to the crowd of commanders and aides. From there he fetched one of Kristian’s chief scouts, and together the three of them each mounted their own horses and set off.

Having started at the very back of the army, Kristian was treated to a fine tour of the grand Hallish force that he had laid out on the field. The small round hill he had been standing on gave way to a flat and open field which stretched on for a while. Here were the first of the Hallish men—some 2,000 sergeants and men-at-arms the Prince held back in reserve in case urgent relief was needed. He called for their commander, and exchanged a few words of instruction to him, before riding forward to the next lot of soldiers.

Pressing on towards the rest of the army, Kristian and his two aides followed the path of a small stream. It accompanied them all the way towards the bulk of his forces, at which point it twisted and turned away from them, leaving them to continue along the grassy meadow. There he found the main part of his infantry forces already laid out in formation. Arrayed in two lines, he could see their proud faces and resplendent armour, as they held their weapons by their sides, just waiting for the battle to begin. Banners of both Alvarish and Korbeker nobles fluttered within these lines—in the centre, they would fight as one, devoid of any differences.

The town of Creutzkirchen itself was just left of these two lines. A small and quaint-looking place, its only notable feature was a red bricked church and a few clumps of houses, nothing more. Prince Kristian gave both the town and his centre of infantry a long look. The two lines were stretched out across the field, beginning at the edge of the town and ending at one of the far-off meadows. Kristian looked at his footmen with a proud look on his face. Even after the constant days of marching and beleaguering weeks he had put them through, they still looked prepared to face the Syrds with a vigorous determination.

Satisfied with the look of his centre, Kristian began riding forward once again. His left flank of cavalry was situated slightly ahead and to the left of the infantry centre—here were the Alvarish lancers, headed by Rechimund, with the town of Creutzkirchen standing between the cavalry and the infantry. Kristian, riding past his centre, could not really make the Alvars out, but he could catch the sight of some of their banners, raised high in the air for all to see. Though he could not see them clearly, the Prince felt confident with the look of the lancers, and was reassured by Rechimund’s experience in such matters. His right flank of cavalry, meanwhile, was much harder to see, but like Rechimund he felt it needed no further consultation. He thus pressed forward.

After passing two more gentle hills, the Prince came upon his vanguard. He had chosen the mercenaries hired by his father to take up this role. A mix of Syrdish and Hallish soldiers, the ‘Grossartig Kompanie’, as it was known to the Prince, fought in the Syrdish style, and he valued them greatly for this. Their arquebusiers and crossbowmen would act as skirmishers in the front, and though they were few in number, they would serve their purpose well enough. Kristian hailed their captain, a large fellow by the name of Leopold Schiller, before bidding them farewell.

Although he had now reached the end of his army’s positions, Kristian made the decision to ride just slightly into no man’s land, just to catch sight of the Syrds. Riding quietly and calmly with Rüscher and Klemens, he brought the three of them past the meadows and fields, which gave way to yet more small hills, mere bumps in the generally flat land. He brought them to the top of one of these mounds, which gave him a somewhat good view, before dismounting. Resting for a while, the Prince lay crouched above the hill, his gaze turned towards the field that stretched on and on.

“You see them?” He said quietly, squinting his eyes. He did not have the best eyesight, and although he scanned the meadows back and forth, he was having trouble locating where exactly his foe was.

“Uh…Ahah! There! Just past those orchards over there, you can see ‘em!” Said Klemens, turning the Prince’s head to a small orchard field within the meadow. As he looked closer, the Prince could see just by the orchards the Syrdish army, or at least part of it. Formed up in their traditional squares, the Syrds tried to make up for their numerical inferiority by stretching out their lines of pike squares as much as possible. They occupied a lengthy position almost parallel to the Hallish, from what Kristian could see. The blurred masses of armour stood silent in the field, with only their banners making any signs of movement.

“And their cavalry?” He questioned.

“Well there’s one of the flanks over there by that little farmstead or manor.” Answered Klemens, pointing to where the knights were.

“And the other is over there, just by that lone thicket.” Said Rüscher, turning Kristian’s attention to a small patch of trees on the other side of the Syrdish pike squares. The Prince caught sight of yet another group of knights there, resting by the thicket. He made a mental note of all of this information, giving another scan of the Syrdish positions, before turning his focus to the area in between the two armies. The familiar meadows and fields dominated no man’s land, with only a few thickets and ponds distinguishing themselves from the relatively unremarkable landscape. Near the middle, however, was a small lone church. Surrounded by a large wooden fence and flanked by a ditch, the Prince marked it down as a place of some importance. To the right of it was yet another large hill, upon which was nestled a quaint looking windmill.

“Good, very good.” Muttered Kristian softly, as he stood up from his crouching position and prepared to mount his horse. “Everything’s set up. We need only begin.”

***
Less than an hour later, the vanguard and the first line of the Hallish infantry began to move forward against the Syrdish army. Divided into so-called regiments of about one-thousand men each, they moved past the meadows and hills, preparing to take up positions as accorded by Kristian. The Prince had hoped to move his infantry to be just behind the lone church and atop the windmill mound. Yet as his soldiers moved to take up these new positions, the Syrdish reacted with movements of their own. The first pike squares of Duke Martyn began to march against the church.

The sky was grey and cloudy, with faint glimpses of sunlight peering through the gaps in the clouds, casting light on bits of the battlefield. It was as if the heavens themselves had anticipated the bloodshed that was about to happen beneath them, and thus had dressed themselves in the appropriate mood for it. There was a looming sense of dread in the air, the frosty chill of the winter morning permeating throughout the meadows and hills. Both Hallishman and Syrd alike marched forward in cold and bated breath.

As a result of the marching of the two armies, the first shots began to ring out across the battlefield. The Prince’s mercenaries had begun skirmishing against the advancing Syrdish pike squares. Rushing towards the lone church, they had sent forth their arquebusiers and crossbowmen to fire at the oncoming enemy. The Syrds had hoped to catch the vanguard and capture the lone church before the Hallish men-at-arms and knights could catch up and take up their proper positions, but as the first shots and crossbow bolts were traded between the two armies, the Grossartig Kompanie held firm in its placement and did not give ground. The Syrdish pike squares pressed forward in their advance—if they could not dissuade the Hallish vanguard from giving up the lone church, then they would take it by force.

Then from the left side of the battlefield (from the Hallish perspective) came the blowing of horns, and the stamping of hooves on the ground. The right flank of the Syrdish lancers were charging into the fray, hoping to dislodge the mercenaries from the church with the help of their infantry. There the first melee began, as some of the Syrdish pike squares pushed against Kristian’s mercenaries in tandem with the charge of their lancers, hoping to force the well-disciplined band of soldiers from their position before the arrival of the first Hallish infantry.

Perched above one of the gentle hills, Kristian squinted his eyes anxiously, trying to get a better look at the situation. Had he been too brash in sending his vanguard forward so quickly? The melee within the lone church did not look to be in his favour, and he now risked losing a good position from which to engage his foe. His vanguard was being chipped away by the combined assault from the Syrds, and sooner or later it would be forced to withdraw—this the prince could not allow.

“Send word to Rechimund. Tell him to relieve our vanguard with his lancers and push back those Syrdish knights.” He said, motioning to one of his messengers. Bowing before Kristian, the courier mounted his horse and set off towards the Alvarish position.

By the time the messenger even reached the Alvarish lines, the anticipation of fighting was palpable among the ranks. The knights and mounted warriors, who had corralled themselves off into little sections bearing their banners and heraldic arms, were anxious and eager to join the fray. The sight of the Syrdish cavalry riding forth clawed at their sensibilities, and it was clear that red-hot indignation was coursing through the comtial ranks. Men rustled on their horses as their masters, the barons of the realm, fidgeted in their saddles and wondered where the call for battle was.

Not far from them, the Constable stood. Situated beside the high ground where his force had taken up residence, Rechimund was able to see across the battlefield similarly to his colleague. Though the way the hill dipped and sloped into the horizon made it difficult to spot his allies, or to fully understand the prospects of the battlefield. Still, it was a fine place for him to make formation, and the men-at-arms and horsemen of his army stretched alongside it. The small companies, each about a hundred or so men strong, stood in square, misshapen blocks; a colorful combination of steel plate glistening in the sunlight and familial signs borne upon their tabards and waffenrocks.

Despite his inner-feelings, Rechimund did not join the cavalry, nor did he intend to lead the knights into battle. That he left to the barons themselves to decide, though Jürgen von Siedburg and Jan Reichart had brought some of the largest hosts of men, and were as such essentially its leadership. This he trusted to them, as his unfortunate fate was to remain on the hillside and instruct the Alvarish infantry, as he and the other barons believed it to be better held in reserve for whatever decisive, important moment could present itself. The cavalry was instead to be a deterrence, or so Rechimund thought.

The Constable turned from the battlefield to watch as the Prince’s bannerman came riding fast, bearing word for him to attack. The small gathering around him—a few bodyguards and now the Baron Jan Reichart who rode over to see to the matter—watched as he presented the instructions to Rechimund.

The elder casted a long look down towards where the Syrdish lancers had taken the field. Their boldness and strength of arms was indisputable, and he had heard of their success in the previous engagements with the Hallish folk. Arrogance filled the Constable’s heart: they had not yet faced the Alvarish.

Nodding, he looked to Jan Reichart and the fair Baron quickly understood his severe look and took off back to the massed collection of knights and mounted sergeants.

In an instant, the Alvarish knights slowly filtered into action. One by one they struck their horses and sent them galloping forward, picking up speed; the stream of horsemen continued for a few seconds, gathering momentum and force until they joined into a mighty river that leveled the freshly-rained ground and scattered mud in every direction.

Reichart was near the front, having rejoined the ranks and giving them the word. The sounds of hooves beating the ground beneath them, combined with the horrible grinding of metal plate and rhythmic thundering of the riders was overbearing; it was nigh impossible to focus on anything else but what lied ahead, and his mind was clear as he soared down the hillside and reached the flat plains. Behind him, despite the cacophony of it all, he heard the Constable’s horn signal their attack, the final backdrop to introduce their presence. Like play actors, it was their moment to enter the stage.

As the Syrdish lancers began to break from the melee and turn to face the rapidly closing Alvarish charge, it became clear that the two forces would meet in fair engagement. While Rechimund gritted his teeth and watched with apprehension for what would unfold, Baron Reichart felt a strange sadness swell about him. Looking through his visor, he saw the lone church ahead growing into vision, and each second that passed as they rode further seemed to elevate its stature. The steeple dominated the hillscape by the time they neared the Syrds, and Jan realized how strange and horrible it was to fight under its gaze. It was as if the Greatest watched over the battle, peering from the windows with indifferent curiosity to the blood that was about to be spilt just beneath his front door.

Before Jan could wonder further, the great hosts of cavalry collided. There was a sudden, inescapable crunch that rippled all around him, along with the cries of battle and the struggle of wounded men. Steel and sharpened spearpoint raced by him like sparrows, blurred shapes of men and horses galloping by. The ranks collided and intermixed, and the coursing river that the Alvarish first rode with now turned into a puddle being stomped by a giant.

There was a terrible beauty in what Rechimund observed. The two mounted forces collided with such force that he watched as men were thrown from their horses and sent practically flying. Steeds were struck down and their masters sent to the ground, where they were undoubtedly trampled by friend and foe alike. Natural columns of knights formed as the riders both carved deep into each other’s ranks, but soon they folded in and collapsed, and the Constable saw the general melee between the riders unfold. He hoped the spirit of Saint Alvar rode with them today, as there was indication of who would win; organization had fallen, and now it was nothing but the strength of man against man.

Almost instinctively, Jan lowered his lance and aimed it forward. Instantly he found a mark, his lance shaking and bouncing hard in his grip as he impacted the center of a Syrdish knight’s horse. The spearpoint striking the face of the beast, the noble steed crumpled to the ground with the rider trapped in the stirrups. Before he could see what happened to the man, he was struck himself, a Syrdish lancer thrusting his spear hard into his shoulder. The blow hit his pauldron, sliding across the front, and not dealing a fatal wound; pain was the immediate response, as the force of the impact unsettled Jan and caused him to sit near lopsided in the saddle.

With no time to correct himself, his horse continued forward until crashing against another Syrdish knight’s. The two came to an awkward halt, and many around them did the same as the original impetus of the charge melted away. Leaning in his saddle, he dropped his lance to the ground immediately and reached for his waraxe, and taking the metal handle into his hand struck the man upon the side of the abdomen.

Riders fought all across the field, discarding their lances and long-spears for their sidearms. Some even chose to dismount and join the fray on foot, taking swipes at the vulnerable cavalrymen before finding their own opponents on the ground. The violence continued for no more than four minutes in total, though for Jan and the others, it felt like an eternity. Eventually there was a sudden break in the Syrdish morale; a few knights must have lost heart and retreated back, and their absence quickly caused a chain reaction as men began to filter out of the melee. Riders fought with their mounts until they escaped, and the Alvarish did not pursue them for long as they retreated towards the Syrdish lines, or surrendered to them. There a forest of pikes waited for them, and this sight was enough of a deterrence for the victorious Alvarish knights to become lame and aimless as they reclaimed their weapons and idled in the field.

Hoping to get a better view of the battle, Kristian had ridden even further up ahead, setting up on the hill that he had previously used to scout out the Syrdish positions. The sound of gunfire and the clashing of steel was much louder here, but the Prince was finally given a moderately good look of almost everything that was going on. He felt more at ease as a result, even despite the concerns from his guard that it was unsafe to be so close to the action.

The Prince turned his gaze to the church, and saw that the Alvars had done their duty—the Syrdish lances had been forced back to their original position, and without the support of their cavalry the Syrdish pike squares had to disengage from the melee. As the first line of the Hallish infantry arrived to secure the area, the lone church was now left firmly in the Prince’s hands. But in other parts of the battlefield, such matters were not so certain. On the right side of the battlefield, a second melee had broken out over control of the windmill and its hill. The Syrdish pike squares had reached it first, and now the Hallish men-at-arms were caught in a desperate struggle to capture the windmill, fighting an uphill battle to take control of it.

Carrying the banners of their lieges or displaying their colours on their waffenrocks, the Alvarish and Korbeker knights marched up the hill, crying out for victory and death to the Syrds. Their vigorous energy pushed them forward and forward again, as they raised their greatswords and maces and prepared to bring them down against the enemy. Though the Prince could only hear it faintly, the loud crash of steel against steel followed, as the Hallish men-at-arms threw themselves at the Syrdish pikes with a near suicidal determination. Yet despite being faced with the relentless charge from the Hallish infantry, the Syrdish pike squares did not give up their position. They engaged their enemy with an equal passion, and before long the Syrdish pikes had opened up gaps in the Hallish lines, allowing for the swordsmen and halberdiers within the squares to charge in. Before long the Hallish infantry had been sent back down the hill.

Yet despite their victory at the windmill, Martyn was unable to take advantage of such success. As the pike squares reformed and prepared to give chase to the fleeing Hallish men-at-arms, Kristian’s right flank of lancers, which before had sat idly on the battlefield, charged against them. The Prince had given no such order to do so, but it seemed that their commander had seen the danger that Kristian’s right flank was in, and had charged in accordingly. The attack of the lancers did little, but it did buy Kristian valuable time. The pike squares were stopped in their tracks by the attack and by the time they had repelled it Kristian had already sent in parts of his second line to stabilise the situation.

The Prince now scanned the battlefield once more, an anxious expression on his face. He was still unsure of all that was going on. The syrds had been routed from the church, yes, but the windmill remained in enemy hands after a hard-fought battle. If he was to order a general attack now, he was not certain if things would end in his favour or not. Every single move he considered making came with doubt and fear. Fear that he’d be routed like he was at Aimerbülh. Fear that all those marching and tireless nights he had put himself and his men through would be for nothing.

He was not left with much time to decide. A general lull had descended upon the battlefield, as both the Syrds and the Hallish dithered on what to do. Yet as Kristian paced up and down, pondering over the battle, the Syrdish army acted first. In the centre of the battlefield pike squares began to mass and advance towards the lone church once again. It was now clear that Martyn could not just settle for the windmill and its small hill—his army required both positions, and with a resounding cry the Syrdish pikemen threw themselves before The Greatest once again.

The prince’s mercenaries, still holding the church and already battered by the battle, bore the brunt of the assault once again. This time, however, they were aided by the knights and men-at-arms around them, and a bloody melee consumed both armies once again. The long pikes of the Syrds stabbed through the army of the brave Hallish knights, while the Hallish men-at-arms themselves slashed and stabbed at their foe with an increasingly exasperated vigour. Kristian could sense the bloodshed that was unfolding, but as his eyes darted from hill to hill and pickle square to pike square, he noticed something.

It was not completely clear, rather it was hard to tell due the rolling hills that obscured parts of the Syrdish army, but the Prince had noticed it. In massing up a part of the pike squares into one general advance and melee at the centre of the battle, the already outnumbered Syrdish lines appeared to be stretched thin. Indeed, both the windmill and outer flanks of Duke Martyn’s army seemed dangerously spread out, as individual pike squares were forced to hold large swathes of land by themselves. The Duke had taken a risky gamble in doing so, and as the melee in the centre showed no favour to either side, it looked increasingly like a gamble he would lose. The Prince saw the stretched out numbers of the Syrds, and like a stalking wolf he prepared to pounce on his prey. The flanks of the Syrdish army were still held by their lancers—if these could be routed from the field entirely, perhaps the thinly spread pike squares on the outer edges could be convinced to run as well. Once they had fled, the Duke would have no choice but to retreat. His men in the centre simply had to hold on long enough to do so.

He sounded the order. Both of his lancer flanks were to advance and attack their opposing knights and rout from the field. It was a gamble of his own for the Prince, but Kristian had faith in the Alvarish and his own knights. Rechimund had already proven himself in the melee at the church, and he was aware that the Syrdish knights were not the crême de la crême of Duke Martyn’s army. A rout was possible—not just possible, it was necessary. The couriers were sent to both Rechimund and the Korbeker knights on the right flank.

In the delay of the couriers and orders being sent out again, the forward-placed knights of Alvaringen did not entirely amble without direction. Those of the Syrdish lancers they had captured were escorted back by a few of the warriors; they were in unusually good spirits for a defeated force, perhaps having heard of the generosity of the Alvarish towards ransoms and captives.

Elsewise the Alvarish licked their wounds and prepared themselves. A number of their riders had lost their mounts, and now utterly useless in the horse corps, were sent back or left of their own direction. Some of them chose to take the path back to the hillside where the Constable watched, electing to leave the battle to the rest. Others, still eager to do their part, left with their small section of retainers and sergeants to join the foot-infantry and continue the fight. This small act bolstered the hearts of the Alvarish warriors, even as the Hallish were thrown into the fray to try and keep the good positions they had from falling into the hands of Syrdish pikes.

The Baron of Wiggenburg was wounded in the charge as well. Burchard had joined the ride near the front, but unlike Jan was not nearly as lucky: his leg had taken a blow from a lance that splintered, either breaking or striking bone. They were not sure yet, since he refused to have his armor removed until he was away from the field and a camp surgeon could oversee it. Yet the pain was too much for the man to continue; vibrations rocking against his mount and saddle sent him into fits of excruciating pain. He even had to be helped down from his horse, and the onlookers watched as he was physically carried down and laid upon a blanket to which his retainers could carry him. Though he was in good spirits; seeing the faces of the men watching him, and recognizing the concerned gazes fixed across their brows, he halted his men. Forcing himself up so that his torso was upright, he looked across them, seeing into their eyes.

Raising an armored fist, he let out a cheerful cry and exclaimed, “Whip ‘em for me, lads!”

Breaking out into a groan-filled fit of laughter, the Baron of Wiggenburg was carted off of the field and the others seemed much more cheerful. In the distance, Jan spotted the courier making his way across the open field towards them. Figuring that it was the call to commit another attack—for the Constable had not called upon the hornsman to order their retreat yet—he looked back to his companions. A similar understanding soon filled their ranks. The young Robin von Hochdorf, who had rode with the men and performed admirably thus far, chose to walk towards the front of the cavalry.

“To ourselves, a good life and a good struggle!” He said, planting his first against his breast. “And to the Greatest, the glory!”

The crowd broke into uproar and encouragements as the courier arrived, which Jan imagined surely looked strange given the beleaguered state of the rest of the Korbeker army. Hearing the orders, the cavalry wasted no time and quickly found their horses. The time for rest was over and the killing fields called to them again, its siren call a constant pining for the knightly men. Without his lance, Jan chose to fall into the middle of the ranks instead of borrowing one from his sergeants. Raising his waraxe, he rode off again with the thundering of the cavalry as they rejoined the fray. There was an eagerness to their movement, as now they were on the offensive, and knew that their performance here could change the state of the battle.

From afar, Constable Rechimund watched as his mounted warriors disappeared from view, bounding around the side of the hill where the church blocked his vision. He could not see the struggle they surely underwent there, as they were destined to crash into the Syrdish lines and disrupt their cavalry, as they had done to the Korbeker army months prior. It was all so reminiscent, Rechimund thought, and he wondered if the Syrd, Martyn, was thinking the same at this moment. Though he continued to watch the hill, hoping to catch glimpses of his cavalry and their performance just beyond, he saw nothing; his eyes were drawn to the battle on his flank, where he watched as the Hallish and Syrds did battle. The ranks of infantry crashed against each other, though it was difficult for them to maneuver due to the Syrdish pikes harassing them. His own infantry had been committed by this point, leaving just a reserve that was only useful to plug gaps in the line.

Though Kristian was the superior in stature here, Rechimund was not sure of his decisions. Both sides had gambled by throwing their infantry into the fray like this; too much was left to chance. Yet the Constable did not refuse his orders, for while Kristian threw the footmen into the battle and spent them like an archer would his ammunition, he did not think the battle would be won there. The Alvarish cavalry would decide this battle, that he was certain of.

Which only aggravated him more that he could not see their bloodshed, for everything counted on their single action. The hill church was plagued by infantry on all sides, having been the centerpiece of the battle as it dominated the landscape. Prince Kristian’s mercenaries, to their credit, fought hard, which had impressed Rechimund. He found the unusualness of their dedication and their risk of life or limb an uncommon quality for coin-paid men.

Suddenly he looked to the edge of the church, where the hill’s slope bled away just enough to give a few spots of vision ahead to where his cavalry had charged. He thought he saw movement and focusing there, watched as a ragged host of cavalry filtered back in disorganized streams. At first he was concerned that his own forces had broken, and confused, retreated towards the Syrdish lines. This fear was quickly put to rest as he spotted their royal banners, and was immediately satisfied with the sight. The Syrdish lancers had been broken.

Word of the Alvarish victory over the Syrds reached Kristian just moments later. A pleasant smirk crossed the young man’s face as he turned his gaze to the right flank of his army. A similar success was seen with the Korbeker knights, who routed their counterparts off the field with men to spare. The Prince knew then that a fatal blow had been dealt to the Syrdish army. If he was a wolf pouncing on its prey, then Duke Martyn’s army was now a wounded animal, shuddering and recoiling from the bite delivered by the Hallish lancers.

Blood had begun to drip. The pike squares on the flanks, seeing the rout of their comrades, lost their courage and withdrew, timidly at first, but soon in a full panicked retreat. Running back across the pleasant meadows and running hills, the pike squares withdrew from the battlefield like droplets of blood, and the Syrdish army felt it. Those fighting in the centre, who stabbed and stabbed at their Hallish enemy, as well as their commanders, felt it too. Fear raced across each and every one man, as the army staggered and reeled and faltered. Now it needed only a signal for it to turn tail and run.

The Duke of Kristoheim gave it. Or perhaps it was his commanders, acting independently—Prince Kristian had no way of telling, all he knew was that the signal had been given. The Syrdish army had given up any last vestiges of hope within itself. Wounded and bleeding, it withdrew slowly from the melee at the church. The pike squares fell back from the action, its commanders ensuring a cautious and orderly retreat. That was their intention, at least, but as the Syrdish army fell further and further back from the battle, organisation and discipline began to break down. Men fled, and each desertion reverberated throughout the army.

The Syrdish army had begun walking away from the battlefield at a steady pace, but with each minute that passed, it accelerated and became more wild in its movements. It lurched back and stumbled from any sign of danger, and by the end of the hour, a full rout had descended upon the proud pike squares of the Duke of Kristoheim. The wounded animal fled with all its force, as cohesion broke down within the regiments. Men scattered throughout the battlefield, having broken off from the army. They no longer thought or moved as one—survival had possessed them, and they thought only for themselves. By the end, only the most disciplined remained, a good part of the Duke’s army, but casualties had been sustained nonetheless. The animal lived to see another day, but it would take time for it to lick its wounds and heal.

Rolais, Uyuti, Saeju, Riddenheim, and 4 othersCheysal serulea, Ryeongse, Alvaringen, and Eskeland

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