Fantasy Nations RP

Chlegyr

Active Member
Member
Though greatly delayed in arrival by the unforeseen difficulty in maneuvering the mammoths through the more heavily forested than expected terrain immediately surrounding, the approach of the First of the Ashen Horde would soon be unforgettable by those who survived to remember it. The besieged, burning, and frozen town was now clearly visible to all those in the approaching army, as it moved to take advantage of it's long preparations to envelop the attacking army. The attacking human force was too preoccupied rooting out the defenders to notice that a few of their exterior patrols were delayed in reporting back, and Sky Splitter doubted that even if such news were to reach the commander, that it would be within his means or will to do anything about.

He was armoured, mounted, and wielded the sword that had seen him through countless trials before him. At his back was the greatest army his people had ever known, all united in their belief in him as a leader and their spiritual conviction in The Mammoth. Behind them lay the unrelenting maw of an unending winter, and their very survival was utterly dependent on their victory. What did they have to lose but their lives?

In a decisive gesture, Sky Splitter sounded the great horn, a deep, rumbling noise that shook dead leaves from trees and dew from grass. After nearly ten seconds, the sound abated, and his lungs burned. From further down the ring of soldiers came similar horns, and on and on until the entire area around the town resounded like the great throat of a gargantuan beast. After the deafening noise resounded through, well audible from even the innermost sanctum of Verthill's keep, came the dull roar of thousands upon thousands of pairs of feet, marching out and into the clearing. Anyone within the camp would clearly be able to see the massed army surrounding them, tall and strange figures of orcs, and even more terrifying, mammoths. All clutched at weapons, and chanted a fevered war cry to the air, bashing shields and stomping to make the sound yet more intimidating.

Then, as a dam breaking all at once, unleashing the force of the caged mass within, the army charged towards the walls and the humans attacking it with an ear splitting cry of fury.
 

Easy

Right Honorable Justice
Member
The sounding horns summoned the invasion force from within the walls of Verthill, gathering them outside to stare with dread and awe at the sheer scale of the ambush, temporarily forgetting to heed the frantic calls of the sergeants struggling to regain control of their divisions. To a man, their hearts caught in their chests to see their own side's cavalry division, already formed and riding, charging headlong into the overwhelming storm, to a brave, certain, and futile death. But the last moment, their formation turned aside, as one, transforming the all-out charge into a simple pass. Some of the riders were felled in the action, struck or grappled by those orcs lucky or quick-thinking enough to reach them. But the greater part of their motion cut down and scattered the foot soldiers before them, throwing the momentum of their ranks into chaos and disarray, as a cavalry charge will tend to do to an undisciplined mass of infantry on impact. As they galloped away and wheeled back around for another such action, a burst of smoke and flame erupted before the nearest enemy mammoth, and then again in front of the next; the Court Enchanter's work, aiming to move the massive beasts to stampede. Hoping to further slow the Horde's unstoppable approach, as the horn sounded for full retreat from the field of battle.
 

Zapy97

Active Member
Member
Christopher woke up in the family mansion early one morning in the month of Braunlichen. He paced the bedroom restlessly while his wife sleep on. He looked out a window towards the horizon across the rolling farmlands. He stood there contemplating recent events for a long while. His head turned towards a sound of stirring of a feral looking orange critter at the door. It was his cat which had come to at the usual time to beg for her breakfast. Being torn from his thoughts he would walk over to the door, pick up the cat and pet her a couple times.

Walking with his cat in his arms to the kitchen where the food servant was sleeping quietly. Setting the cat down on her pillow Christopher would then turn to the cold room. Walking into it after opening it he would note how cold it was since he was only in his bedwear. Finding a stoneware jar of milk in the dark he would retreat from the cold recesses of the room. Pouring the milk into a bowl and setting it down in front of the cat. Christopher would watch a his pet would eagerly take from the bowl. Petting her christopher would gently say, “good morning Briony. Enjoy your breakfast.” Sunlight would creep through the window as it rose over the horizon and Christopher would rise to his feet. Walking over to his young blond cook he would gently push on his shoulder and say, “Hans, it is time for you to wake up.” In a couple seconds Hans would stir and look up at his employer tiredly. Without words he would get off of his bed which was a large stone slab of marble. Moving his bedding from the slab and putting them in the dry storage closet next to the cold room. Hans bringing ingredients from the storage closet would set them down on the large slab. Hans would begin cooking and Christopher would leave the room.

Returning to the master bedroom Christopher would see his wife Lyla stirring. Christopher would admire her swollen beauty before walking over to and embracing her. She would whisper to him, “Chris don’t leave me for war again. I wouldn’t bear the thought of losing you.” Looking out the window Christopher would kindly and peacefully say in reply, “never in a million years would I dream of it. Only if pressed into service by Sygian himself would I go humbly myself to war for this land.” The two would stand for what seemed like hours in the showering rays of dawn’s light. Christopher’s brother would appear in the doorway and for a moment observe the two. John would then break the silence with, “sorry to disturb you two but breakfast is ready for you.” The three of them would all depart to the dining hall of the mansion. John’s wife and Hans would be waiting at the table full of food enough for the family. Shortly after Christopher, Lyla and John would arrive would come come the rest of the family and servants.

About an hour later breakfast would be concluded and the family would go about its daily business. In the counting room both Christopher and John would go about sorting through assets and inventory. They would be deciding what to take and what to leave behind. They would be calculating what the capacity of their carts would be, how far they would be able to go and where they could refuel. Going through many business reports in the past months both John and Christopher had each separately come to the conclusion that Eisenkernland had been over saturated with their goods. There would be a large board which had many scribblings of plans and routes through foreign lands. The long journey would be complete far into the lands of the East. Their was a plan to present brilliant brionium glass globes to the richest and most notable kings of the east.

At present however a unique envelope caught John’s eyes and his attention would be drawn to it. It was made of very fine and beautiful paper. Picking it up and examining John would find that it was an invitation to the Imperial military ball addressed to Christopher. John would note that Christopher had ignored it when sifting through the mail this morning earlier. Turning to his brother John would ask, “Chris this invitation is addressed to you. It is the Imperial General’s ball, surely you would be honored to go.” Chris would look up from his work and say, “I don’t wish to attend, after all I was only ever a captain. An event like that is quite a bit above my rank.” John would open the envelope and read it. “You have to read this, Chris,” John would exclaim. “Why what does it say?” Christopher would ask out of curiosity standing and coming over to read the letter. ”They couldn’t have. Not him, no. He’s surely not a General already. My Alfy. No he couldn’t have been named General.” Christopher would exclaim shocked and he would continue, “Alfred Achilles being named Imperial General, I have to see this.” John would look at Christopher with his sudden change of heart.

Within the hour Christopher would have his dress uniform put in order and it would be set out and ready for him. He would admire it and remember the last army ball he went to which was not nearly as high class or high ranking. That time he had brought his wife along and they had danced the night away. This time he would be alone, his wife wasn’t pleased. He couldn’t duck out either. Alfred was his best friend and had known him in all his years of service. His horse was ready and it would be a long and lonely ride to Diamantauge. He would have to ride out soon or not at all.
 

Chlegyr

Active Member
Member
The mass of orcs, though undisciplined, proved far too forceful and determined in their charge to be dissuaded by a formation of horsemen, no matter how valiant their attack. The Orcs that were cut down were soon replaced by legions of their fellows, bristling with rage for their fallen comrades and exacting revenge on whatever cavalryman whose horse was felled by a javelin or arrow or even a primitive blast of elemental energy. The roaring tide of warriors streamed forth, even as one or two mammoths were frightened by the flames and reared up, throwing their riders from their backs. Yet more mammoths appeared from the forest as space was created accompanied by warriors, bristling with weapons and furor as they surged through the trees.

The charging cavalrymen found their numbers thinned rapidly, with each pass of the horde leaving fewer and fewer of the armored horsemen left astride their mounts, and would soon have to fall back to their own line or charge into surest death. The charging horde advanced further, now a mere few hundred yards from the humans and heedless of the danger of war as Skysplitter raised his great sword to the sky and bellowed a rather redundant order to attack. Orcs within the keep cheered, ecstatic to see their attackers so terrified of their kin.

The Front-line of the horde crashed against whatever defenses were presented by the humans like a wave, Mammoths kicking up lines of defenders, as the massively bodied orcs tore through the ranks of terrified soldiers, skirmishers cutting down whichever of them broke for the road with impunity. As orcs and men alike fell in pitched battle, the now defenders fought like cornered dogs, trying their best to maintain formation against the swell of vigorous Orcish warriors. Even the most disciplined would find themselves no match for the furious blows inflicted by raging tribesmen, even with their primitive weapons. Each man that fell quickly had his weapon wrenched from him by an overzealous orc tribesman, who swung his new weapon with an enthusiasm not quite matched by his skill. Ultimately, it mattered not, as the horde pushed the battered remnants of the army back against the wall.

Suddenly, just as the remaining humans seemed certain to be dashed against the stone wall of Verthill, the rampaging orcs seemed to slow, holding back and allowing soldiers to retreat to their position by the wall. From behind the mass of soldiers, flanked by several shamans and guards, came the imposing figure of Sky Splitter. The War-King of the Orcs came bearing a large, rune etched sword in his right hand, his left bearing the fluttering banner of the Ashen Tusk. He stopped a good distance from the defending mass of soldiers, and silenced the frothing horde with a single, shouted order.

As the battlefield grew silent, the clash of steel and wood slowed, and the mammoths ushered a short distance away from the fighting, Sky Splitter raised his sword for all to see. He shouted a single word down at the huddled soldiers who remained down there, the Count likely among their number. The War-King shouted down to the huddled humans in a booming voice, echoing like thunder over the near silenced field as orcs looked over at the Humans, almost hoping they decided to fight to the last.

"Surrender."
 

Easy

Right Honorable Justice
Member
Madness.

Few men of rank in the Greater Eximian proper, the Grand Duchy of Lena, where Vysnovet and his House held reign, were of common descent. Tradition, sentiment, and the shameless self-interest of the Church had granted the title of Emperor to Vasa, the bearer of Starlight, where by all rights and rule of law it should have passed to him, the Grand Duke, whose claim carried the highest weight of status and authority. And so the Lords that remained faithful to Vysnovet, defying the tides of fate and favor that carried the unscrupulous pretender, were men for whom duty and honor were the rule, not merit and practicality. These men had iron faith in the ethos and obligations of blood and nobility - as their Grand Duke leaned, without reservation, upon their own. As the thirdborn son of one of Sighorn's barons, Leto had not worked his way through the ranks, as a commoner would. Command had been set aside for him since birth, as one of the few remaining uses for the younger sons of minor nobility.

So he'd taken to it, reading books and histories and any advisory accounts he could get, knowing that in the absence of brilliance, experience was the surest path to ability. And once, briefly and in what had then been thought a fit of madness, he'd even arranged to enlist himself, under disguise, into one of his father's columns.

That experience had been, very nearly, as valuable as all the others put together. All commanders learned of the value of shock on the field; they learned how a pointed charge through a single, weak rank could break a formation, scatter its constituents through the field. They learned that morale alone was no surety against this. They learned that it was discipline, above all things, for which they drilled their footmen. So they could match step, and march along, and move efficiently across the distances, certainly - but so that routine became their resort in battle, rather than instinct, most of all.

This was why armies spent years training their horses, and weeks - if not months, - training their soldiers, on such simple, mundane repetitions, rather than honing their individual strength and prowess at-arms. When a mount stampeded, ten more shied and bucked at their riders alongside it. When one man stumbled on the march, ten more behind him faltered.

What Leto learned in the columns was that in the midst of an army, with shields and shoulders on all sides, no room to leap, maneuver, or dodge, only the first few ranks ever truly saw what was to happen to them, and knew what to expect - and there was neither time nor thought to spare for sharing words about it. Delays, standstills, the giving of any ground - these things were not instinctively or intuitively coordinated. Where a frontline shied from the first strike of lances, the ranks became confused - and where confused, so much more vulnerable to the lances that followed. The army whose footmen could see a lance graze over their helms, and not so much as flinch from the impact, was an army that could not be scattered. Killed, yes, but never scattered.

The Horde of raiders and deer-trackers that had overrun his footmen could hardly be called an army, so wild and untrained was their migration. Indeed, they were more like an armed mob rushing the battlements, so misshapen and fluctuating in their composition. A mob of the sort that mere dozens of shining castle guards, the general knew, could disperse in short order, though their targets massed in unwashed thousands, in the cities of men.

But the difference here, Leto realized with slow-blooming horror, was that these were not men.

Madness.

It is one thing for a mob to riot over taxes, or piety, or scandal. Such gatherings could be conveniently ignored unless they became violent, and quickly, easily, (if not bloodlessly) dispersed then. It was quite another thing, however, to deal with rioting of the famished. Such men were beyond thoughts of self-preservation, which drove them equally to either side of the conflict in any case. They knew that unless they grasped at victory, their only choice lay between a quick death on the streets, or a slow one, in their homes. Only a fool would think of driving them off without the strength of numbers, and this, Leto realized, was exactly what he had just done.

There was no shove and press, no confusion in the mob of raging bodies where the iron riders struck. Those who hesitated, turned away, stepped back, or even fled from the lances did not stall ten more behind them. They were simply shoved to the dirt or cut down, slain, trampled by the heedless masses behind them. Those mammoths driven to stampede by the sight of blinding flames, smell of scorching hair, and sound of tortured screams were simply executed, whether through inspiration, impatience, or some base, innate sort of wisdom, before they could cause any real damage or confusion along their unstoppable, uncontrollable charge. Somehow, the urge to kill seemed to lay deeper, stronger, in each individual orc, than the regard for his own safety and survival.

Could it be that they were starving?

Or simply monstrous?

Leto watched the last of the horsemen disappear over the distant hillside, trailing after their Count and his Enchanter. The soldiers, at least, still had a chance to live. As for the men of rank… the Count, and his sons… they answered to the Sleepless Lord, Vysnovet. They had failed him, and so their choice was clear: A quick death in the field, or a slow one in the square.

This was why Leto had fled to his men, rather than away from them, as the Count had. He had thought to have been slain by now, and had never accounted the possibility that anything would even slow this Horde, let alone stop it. Let alone the command of a single, mighty warrior.

“Lay down arms.” He commanded, head spinning, yet strangely aloof from the roots of his thoughts. He could not fathom how this had happened. He could not fathom how such a mass of creatures so murderous, whose malice overrode their very instinct so greatly as to override the very foundations of centuries of warfare, could be moved in mere seconds to negotiation. He thought he understood what sort of creature this orc that commanded them so must be, and the hairs rose along the nape of his neck for having considered it. Lay down arms! He shouted suddenly, realizing his mens’ confusion. He realized, also, that his choice was the same as before: a quick death on the field, or a slow one in the square. But his men were only a resource, not to be faulted for their own misuse, and need not share the same fate.

“Petrious” the general called numbly, to the lieutenant beside him, amidst the clattering of falling swords. “You have command.” The man nodded, he saw in the corner of his eye, and did not question. His men never questioned. He climbed down from his horse, looking blankly ahead, not bothering to think about his next moves. If he thought, then he’d fear; and if he feared, he’d hesitate. Already he trembled, as he walked forward to face the regal Orc, one hand absently unbuckling the straps of his helm.

General Fosas Leto, Commander of Ava, drew his sword with one hand, and took his helmet from his skull with the other. A part of him dared hope that his men would question now, entreat him to reconsider, but he swallowed it into suppression. He tossed the helmet ahead of him, where it rolled, clattering, to a stop at the great Orc’s feet, and he pointed his blade in the creature’s direction - a challenge that, for all the words that continued to fail him, could not fail to be understood.

He had never been a pious man - God, as the Grand Duchy’s lords and ladies were fond of repeating, had quite enough to deal with in the East already. And so he did not pray; for though the temptation struck him to do so, he had always lived his life as an honest man. He would die, at least, the same way.
 
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Tirin

God-Emperor of Tealkind
Moderator
Though he had been spent the siege of Verthill safe and secure within the camp, tending to those wounded in the assault who could be retrieved from within the walls, Sailence had had an unplaceable premonition of disaster. He told himself that it was nervousness left over from the forest ambush and his disturbing encounters that night - but an inkling that something was out of place had dogged him before even then. The young man was far from a consummate tactician, but no matter how much thought he put into the matter he couldn't comprehend the occupation of Verthill - the orcs holding the keep were as good as dead, unless something larger was at play.

He had just finished closing the arrow wounds of a young soldier who had been fortunate to reach him when the horns sounded. A frown formed on the youth's face as he made two key observations: that they were decidedly not of Eximian origin, and that they originated further from Verthill instead of within the walls. Seconds later the thunder of thousands of orcish feet began to flood the air around the town and the surrounding woodland as they charged. Sailence tore out of the tent, his disfigured face paling as he understood the full extent of the peril the Eximian army was in. By the time the smaller force had been borne down upon, he - like Leto - had realized that the battle was hopeless.

To the prince-in-exile, that was perhaps a blessing. Though the soldiers were beyond his power to save, cornered men - particularly those who were already dead - fought the most viciously, and that fact alone would buy those stuck in the camp time to escape whatever dread fate they might otherwise be subject to. He rushed to alert those who had not been roused already, and shouted plans to evacuate above the distant screams and ring of steel. A flurry of activity grew between the tents as wounded soldiers and support personnel of all kinds gathered the supplies necessary to survive their flight, Sailence doing the same within his own and rapidly healing and helping men to their feet.

And, suddenly, he became aware of silence, or nearly so, beyond the periphery of the encampment. He sprinted to the edge nearest the battle in the hopes of understanding what had happened, even as nausea clenched his insides. Had the Count's army been slaughtered with such ease? Through what magic was such possible? These questions and more assailed his thoughts, and he stopped for a moment to catch his breath only to hear the booming demand of Sky-Splitter. Knowing that Leto, at least, would not give his men's lives over for naught, he again began to race over the muddied plains and toward the battlefield, as unconcerned by the stains they visited on the lower parts of his robes and coat as he was of the flecks of blood adorning the chest and sleeves of the garment. There were doubtless men in need of his magic, and the orcish tribesmen may in time have accepted the same.
 
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