Fantasy Nations RP

[Milamber]

Garth Benor, Professor M. Kulgan and Samir O’Toole: Vasa Ascendancy, Lusica – Samir’s Quarters.

After an arduous discussions and vigorous debates, Samir and Izlude were finally able to agree on suitable candidates for the Hand of Eight. Waiting on the arrival of the candidates, Samir took the opportunity to start the initial research needed to pursue the strategic plans to improve the cities defence. Obtaining recommendations from the royal advisors Samir found the appropriate specialists for the task at hand.

Garth Benor, Leading Specialist within Magical Engineer and Professor M.Kulgan, One of the most respected Scholars within the Academy and self appoint Specialist in Adapting Magical Energy.

What turned into a simple introduction, transformed into a test of its own. Garth interested in the principle of the idea, agreed to begin illustrations of potential shells for the barrier that would be the simplest to duplicate trying to grasp a sense of scale. The Professor on the other interrogated the Samir’s individual abilities, breaking down the basic information he could work with.

Both in agreement that the task would require plenty of room for their experiments, the list of requests, potential uses and theories droned on into the night. Retiring late, a genuine sense of excitement was evident from the specialists, hoping to achieve something greater.

 

[Easy]

Location: Somewhere very far northwest

Galiatus Duman, Baron of Verthill, was an ambitious man who figured that, since the dissolution of the old Empire, the glory of the future would be seized by whatever man commanded a strong army to take it with. Truth be told this had always been Duman's line of thinking, he being in possession of even more brawn than ambition and not half the brains of either, strong as a team of oxen combined and only slightly more intelligent. The garrison's residents were to this day unsure as to whether his strength was entirely natural or in some part supernatural, but had little reason for complaint. The Baron was a drinker and famously vain, and the tradesmen of the town prospered regularly from his displays of prowess; the blacksmiths and carpenters from repairing the many tools of wood and iron he was always eager to break apart in his hands, for a show; potters from the innumerable stacks of ceramic roof or floor tiles he would smash into pieces with his fists; butchers and brewers from the vast quantities of meat or drink he would consume in one sitting when so challenged; farmers, when he would purchase their livestock merely to show visiting knights and nobles how he could cleave them in two with a single swing of his greatsword, a weapon he wielded in one hand although for most men, merely lifting it required two. These exploits, along with replacement of the castle gate that he'd smashed in with his warhammer, had come very close to emptying the generous coffers his father had left him with. And finance was only one of the Baron's prominent points of weakness.

The Baron's younger brother, Sigius, was a wiser man than he, and tough. Though not half as strong as Galiatus, he was still stronger by half than most, and cleverer as well; an able soldier and a competent leader. Galiatus had made him a lieutenant among his forces, making him only one of several noblemen and knights who were insulted to be made subordinate to Captain Resnak Tempest, a butcher's boy who'd been knighted two years ago, at fifteen, for his valor in battle against a company of raiders suspected to have been under employ by one of Duke Isiegrad's rivals. In fairness, the boy was a genius. Given the opportunity, he had consumed the knowledge of the Baron's library like wildfire, learning to read and write in various foreign languages and especially cultivating an expertise in military tactics and strategy. He was also a trained and competent archer, and outmatched in swordsmanship only by the Baron himself. Even so, Galiatus's choice to make him a commander had served to alienate him greatly from the local nobility, who saw the boy as yet another reason to snigger behind the Baron's back.

Among other factors, but most of all, the natures of these three men combined to shape the defense of Verthill on the night the orcs came. Galiatus was riding to the gate within minutes of the sounding of the alarm bell, having not yet finished his night of drinking and eager to earn himself some glory. In fact he had almost straight away ordered his soldiers, assembled in the courtyard, to prepare to ride beyond the gates and slaughter the enemy in their fields, albeit with their second-and-third in command missing. The few men atop the walls, those who had watch duty tonight to begin with, were the only ones who saw how many orcs were out there waiting for them when the shaman's light illuminated the countryside. Had the men behind the gate been able to see them as well, they would likely not have started cheering as the gate began to rise...

...and then stopped. Anticipating the Baron's move, and being in agreement on its foolishness, Sigius and Resnak had used the cover of darkness to knot the great chains of the structure, jamming the winches that drew it open, then stationed themselves on either side of it atop the wall. While the Baron sat holding his greatsword, confused, with a plate-metal shield in the other hand and a warhammer strapped across his back, Captain Resnak began drawing and loosing arrows at the incoming horde and Sigius called down orders to the gathered forces. "Orcs!" He bellowed, atop his lungs. "To the walls! Climbers!"

TAG: @Chlegyr

 

[Chlegyr]

Third Root was an old Orc from a strange land, though he must have professed to being confused at seeing the weathered old gate of the town rise partially, only to jam itself before it had made it a third of the way. The men on the walls bellowed in their southern tongue, before loosing a thin stream of arrows towards the direction of the forward orcs. Taking cover behind a boulder, he hoped the veteran orcs at his nominal command would possess enough common sense to avoid dashing their lives against the front gate and bulwark, and allow the flankers to at least distract the guard long enough for them to creep forwards and climb the walls themselves. The Tusk was taking a great risk assigning their finest warriors to this task, a failure may well mean the loss of many of their most respected and loved members, as well as the irreplaceable few steel arrows and weapons given to aid their efforts.

A few hunters held back from the charge, their bows carried with a practiced near effortless grace, and fired off a few bone arrows at the turrets and the few guards brave enough to stand in the line of fire. This was mostly to cover the other warriors as they made their own mad dash for the relative safety of the face of the stone walls.

The cheering of the bulk of the guard behind the gate indicated that few were themselves on the walls, at least for the moment. The cunning warriors and veteran hunters of this forward guard were not ones to hesitate when a window of opportunity presented itself. Life and death in the harsh winters of their homeland may well have depended on one single well placed shot before the last of the game migrated into Southern climbs.

Braves bounded across the open field towards the walls as an Ashen tide, a few bodies falling to the sparse drizzle of fire being returned upon them. One or two shamans chose to stay behind to aid the wounded, lacking the same physical fortitude as their comrades now storming up the side of the walls. Hooks of bone and ebony latched onto the low walls, knotted ropes trailing behind them into the darkened field below. A few valiant guardsmen hacked away at the ropes before the first climbers could mantle the brow of the wall, causing some of them to tumble back down. This made little appreciable difference to the numbers of orcs now pouring over rim like a stew left to boil too long on the fire.

The first up were the hunters, near legendary in their own tribes for their skills with the bow and their lightning reflexes on the hunt. Lightly armored with calf hide, steel arrows and small knives, these orcs wasted no time in engaging the guards still desperately holding to their positions atop the walls, peppering the men with arrows and small axes once close enough. These weapons may have been recently liberated from logging camps and wayward scouts, but held a keen edge none the less.Those that hadn't abandoned their posts and fled now found themselves trapped within guard towers, as the heavier warriors now took their place amongst their brethren on the walls.

Around eighty Orcs now found themselves atop the walls surrounding the town, facing downwards onto the dwellings and the guards assembled within the courtyard and attempting even now to retake the walls. The warriors on the opposite end of the town quickly sought out armories and blacksmiths, descending into the town itself to wreak havoc and sow amongst the guards. The remaining fifty or so now faced a fight with the assembled garrison and their commanders.

 

[Easy]

Sigius was such a man as, even though balancing delicately somewhere between nervousness and fear, kept a steady hand and a cool head with some application of effort in battle. He faced the incoming masses warily, and used whatever panic finding its way to the surface of his thoughts to lend strength to his bow arm, and speed to his reflex. A bone arrow glanced harmlessly off the thin metal of his breastplate as he turned to avoid it, and then he loosed the shot that downed what appeared to be his third orc, though it was too dark to be certain of this statistic and certainly far too busy to try. A knight by the name of Sir Holinus, field-sergeant, had found his mark a few times as well, but Lord Galiatus had always deemed archery to be an inglorious device of cowardice. The rest of Verthill's men save for Captain Resnak were relatively poor shots, untrained in the art and lacking the musculature of the arm that could have given credibility to the threat posed by their arrows, if only they could even have began to aim them properly first. A few more men like Captain Resnak, perhaps, could have compensated for their failings and repelled at least this first wave of invaders, for Resnak's aim was true and his bowstring notched, loosed, and notched again with a swiftness that was difficult even to follow, let alone match. Their defenses suffered further as the hunter-orcs began to target the three of them specifically. Holinus was wounded severely as a steel-tipped arrow punctured his breastplate, and Sigius was grazed deeply enough in his off-arm to leave it incapable of holding the bow as he drew it. Resnak, with magnificent speed and a keen eye, ducked and weaved to avoid the incoming missiles, the effort only just barely interfering with the launch of his own arrows. Below, Galiatus bellowed for his men to climb up to meet the enemy at the walls or, alternately, to fix the gate. Not out of cowardice, but rather because his armed and armored frame was too big to easily climb the stairs and traverse the battlements, he himself remained by the gate in hopes of single-handedly meeting any squad that pushed through.

Having nothing better to do than take cover and wait at the time, Sigius was ready for action when the grappling hooks began coming over the walls. His first impulse was to try to kick them back as soon as they appeared, but he stayed the thought and cut their ropes as soon as they grew taught instead, reasoning that it would be easier to simply throw them back over than to attach a new hook each time. Resnak, who had taken Sir Holinus's arrows in order to keep firing, was cleverer yet, and paused momentarily to cut a rope each time the first orc on it grew almost within arm's reach of the top. Their screams did not endear him to the first hunter who managed to reach the top and charge him, offhandedly slicing a corporal from thigh to jaw on his approach. In some orc cultures, according to what Resnak had read on the subject, he may have won back some favor with those that saw him suddenly grip the bow as though it were a spear, throw it point-first at the face of his attacker, and duck under the orc's right arm to avoid the blind, left-handed swing of his axe. On his way past, he deposited an arrow from his hand point-first into the hunter's throat. The last-ditch swing that cost the orc his last bit of lifeblood was fluently anticipated, and Resnak ducked under and rolled. His blade was out before he'd fully turned, and it slashed open another hunter's forward ankle as the young man sprung neatly back to his feet. This one had its swing checked by the sudden failure of his foot, if not the accompanying pain, but was quick enough to dodge back and evade the Captain's next attack. His foot gave out again on the step back, however, and he stumbled and fell back over the edge of the wall whence he came, screaming either with fear or fury. Resnak cut the rope from that hook as well, just as a large, clawed hand gripped the wall above it. He cut that too, and added another scream to the choir he had singing for the raiders on the ground

"Fall back! To the courtyard!" The call broke out, and Resnak turned to see, across the ramparts, an orcish raider with its back turned to him, amidst a scattered array of what might be called 'rearranged human bodies'. Then the orc crumpled to the floor, revealing that Sigius's blade had been the only thing holding it upright in the first place. Sigius's shout made its way across the castle town at the effective speed of sound, echoing from structures and fellow soldiers alike. More grappling hooks appeared on both sides of the gate, and Sigius beat a hasty retreat, painfully clutching either his left arm or the small, wooden buckler he had strapped on to it. Resnak was less concerned by the specifics of the plight, than that hadn't noticed the man's position being so overrun in the first place. Things were getting very bad if he'd already started failing to notice things. "Fall back!" He echoed. Rather redundant at this point, but damn it, he was the officer-in-command... technically. Well, he was after Lord Galiatus. The shout was echoed again not half a moment after leaving his throat, and Resnak chose to pretend that it was because he himself had uttered it.

Galiatus Duman, having long since been excited into his enormous plate-metal armor and atop his enormous plate-metal armored horse, had also long since become agitated at waiting, in vain, for any mortal attackers to approach him while he wore it. This made him less than happy to see his men calling for retreat, meaning he'd either be abandoned by them or have to move even further away from the enemy. He tried to recall their orders, to rally them back at the gate, but in vain. The Baron had a powerful shout, true, such as it was said (with some exaggeration) could ring a church-bell from the ground below. But in this case, at this time, however, his voice was no match for Sigius and Resnak. Their commands were relayed across the ramparts, from soldier to soldier, and grew in strength over time and distance. His commands were of the sort that his soldiers had no wish to hear, and so didn't. Those whose paths brought them unavoidably near the Baron kept their heads down and avoided eye contact, as though sneaking past an embarrassing family member at a public square. Finally, Sigius stopped by long enough to exchange words.

"Brother, what are you doing?" Galiatus started, angrily. "You're leaving the walls wide open! They'll get in and sack the whole town!"

"Have you not seen the battle?" Sigius shot back, touching a nerve and fully aware of it. "The walls are overrun! There's too many! We can't fight them like this, and we'll all be killed if we try. Then the town's fucked for sure. We need to regroup! We've stalled as long as we can. Any townsfolk that can help are either here, or they're not coming."

"I don't lose!" The Baron roared, somewhat inaccurately. "Captain! What's your plan?" He expected Tempest to have some bold, daring last-ditch charge in mind. He was wrong. "Your brother speaks true, my lord. We need to rally at the courtyard," the Captain, who had spend an extra couple of minutes procuring a horse after vacating the wall, affirmed. The horse wasn't necessary for travel, of course - the castle was only minutes away. Rather, he was planning ahead for the possibility that they'd have to barricade themselves within it, and such a large animal could provide emergency rations for some time. Though he was no fool, and certainly knew better than to plan on winning this fight, he was still a very young man, and inexperienced. His keen mind had plotted a course through all possible futures that eventually ended in victory, and completely overlooked the alien concept of defeat. This was another reason why his appointment as Guard Captain had been pure folly.

Resnak continued: "we clearly can't fight them like this. We don't have the numbers, and they do. They're too many for just raiders. We need to fight on our terms: Hold them off in the castle until they think they're secure, and form a plan of attack; when the main force leaves, we strike. We can beat them on our own terms, I'm sure o-"

"Gali, look out!" Sigius instinctively jumped in front of his brother and liege lord, which was an apt testimony to both the failings of instinct and the sense of duty possessed by the Baron's younger brother. Galiatus sat at nearly double Sigius's height when atop his horse, the latter being unmounted, and was offered no protection from the incoming hail of arrows by this senseless, selfless act. The irony of instinct, and the base activities it spurs men to, is in how here Galiatus, by far the dimmest and slowest man present of the three, nonetheless took the most logical action in that brief, fleeting window of time: He spurred his horse to turn its side and, grabbing each of the other men's shirt-collars in a separate hand, lifted them clear into the air and into the cover of his own frame. It would not quite be accurate to say that in this manner he fully protected them from any harm, as Resnak in particular found himself jerked from his horse and then swung clear overhand, down, and back into the solid metal covering a much bigger, heavier beast. The mild bruising the Captain suffered, however, was the worst of their injuries, as a half dozen steel-tipped arrows bounced noisily off the back of their Baron's head and chest and left little more than scratches behind; miraculously, even Resnak's horse had not been hit, nor been scared off by the noise of it all. A few orcish silhouettes hailed them rudely from the ramparts above, one waving a former guardsman's head around before lobbing it their way with amusement. It fell considerably short, and the orcs disappeared behind the battlements again. Looking for more arrows to fire, perhaps.

It did not happen, ultimately, that the young Lord's horse stumbled and fell to the side after suddenly acquiring the weight of the two extra bodies that hung there, but it looked like a near thing until the massive war-beast steadied itself and Galiatus casually tossed his brother in the direction of Resnak's animal. Sigius landed on his feet, having found his bearing with some luck already, which spared him a good deal of indignity before the common-born youth that was officially his commander. The young Captain's own dignity was trespassed upon somewhat more greatly, however, as the Baron lifted him into the air, again, and unceremoniously dumped him in front of his own saddle. "Courtyard!" He ordered. "Sigius, ride ahead and form up the troops. But stay close!" He added. "There may be more on the way."

The shouts and screams from Verthill's places of business, now the chosen targets of raiding for the orcs, had Sigius feeling exceptionally agitated by the time they arrived at the castle, a couple of minutes later. Galiatus, for his part, was very agitated himself, at not having come across anything to kill along the way, and Resnak was agitated because his men, reluctant to respect his command even at his proudest moments, had just seen him be carried into the courtyard on the Baron's mount, like some sort of helpless maid. He jumped from the horse immediately and moved to command them, but Sigius had already beaten him to it.

"Verthill! Atten-hut! Form ranks!" the Lieutenant called. In a matter of seconds, there were two blocks of what should have been thirty men each, with a sergeant standing at the head of each one, but the rows were riddled with gaps and Sergeant Holinus was missing.

Sigius sighed. "Sound off!" And the answer chimed off, man-by-man, down the rows: "One!" "Two!" A pause. "Three!" Another pause. Every time a man adjusted to his new, unfamiliar numerical designation, there was what could be taken as a moment of silence for his absentee neighbor. Meanwhile, Resnak scanned the faces of the townsfolk huddled behind them. Two or three dozen. Had they awaken more quickly to the alarm bells, all of them, perhaps the walls could have been held, with the extra sets of hands and the old, textbook defenses of boiling liquids and heavy stones. They would be too many to feed while defending the castle, and little use to the defenses. However...

"Thirty-six!" The roll call had finished. Sergeant Marimor, himself, and the Dumans made forty fighting men. Then he found the civilian he was looking for: a dark-skinned foreigner of fifty years, and the castle librarian. "Markus!" He strode towards the old man, who did likewise in turn. "Captain?" His mentor answered and inquired.

"You showed me a scroll once, and said it held a spell for sending messages over a great distance. Is that true?"

"The Sending Scroll? Well... yes, Captain."

"And you can use it?"

"Yes, Captain, I believe I can."

"Then go prepare. I'll be there shortly, with a message for the Count." Resnak turned back toward the Dumans, but the librarian held him back. "Captain, the scroll is not without limitations. The preparations take a day at the least, and using the scroll even once will destroy it."

Resnak cursed. "Start preparing now, then, and be prepared to miss some sleep. Not using it now could destroy us all... and the scroll too, besides. Go." He turned back again, to find that Sigius had managed to rearrange the body of thirty-six men into neat blocks of nine, three on a side. Two of these squads stood guard on either side of the open, spiked-iron courtyard gate as though prepared to fend off Hell itself, while Azal the armorer and a couple of aids came from the castle bearing half-rusted spears for the townfolk. This was technically outside of his proper bounds, of course, but now didn't seem like the time to complain about, particularly since just then rose the cry of "Orrrrcs!" and just after, "Archers!" Being a quick learner, he rushed quickly to Galiatus's shadow, while the big man sat unmoved, except to raise his arm over his eyes as though merely fending off a vicious sunrise. The other guards in their groups crouched down, shields facing outward, and in this way the prepared defenders weathered the first volley without injury.

There was no second volley. The warriors funneled in through the open gate and, for the first time, were met with a trained, disciplined, coordinated defense force. For ordinary men, this would have been catastrophic, but the orcs had a discipline of their own, and themselves did not turn or flee at the sight of danger. What had been intended as a stopgap, to force the attackers to come at them just a few at a time, proved hopelessly ineffective against this fearless charge. One brave sprinted straight past the guardsmen to tackle Galiatus's horse at full speed - a hopeless endeavor, even for such a large attacker, and the greatsword readily cleaved off an arm. This did not much deter him from using the other one, however, and after a brief struggle Galiatus smashed his head in and dismounted - little good it did him to be on horseback, but with no room to ride in. Sigius was desperately fending off a warrior's axe, but his shield was failing and so was the arm that held it - the strain of taking the blows had re-opened his wound, and it was bleeding profusely. In the squads, a soldier fell. Then another. Then another.

If there was one thing that could shake these warrior's spirits and give pause to their fury, it would be the sight of the full-metal behemoth that came to greet them now. In one hand, a massive greatsword. In the other, the steel contraption he wore for a shield. Across his back, the warhammer that had shattered the old city gates. He swung right, backhanded, and split the orc that was attacking his brother from armpit to opposite earlobe. With surprising speed for such a figure, he whirled around and smacked an incoming axe-blade directly away with his shield, stripping the weapon from its owner's hands. It struck a deep and almost deafening note on the metal surface, which surely resembled a death-toll to the offending orc's ears as a large steel blade entered his ribcage and knocked aside some important bits of his spine. "Fall back!" echoed the cry. "To the castle!" Galiatus heard, but did not register. He continued forward, to the gate, apparently intent on holding it himself... or just killing some more. Another soldier fell.

"To the castle!" The call to give ground had been from Sigius, who had been observing from the rear since that last one almost killed him. The clarification of direction, unnecessary though it arguably was, came from Resnak, who was feeling decidedly less important than he'd have liked. The squads were a good idea; they let each man in a group cover the other, and freely rotate the front-line when fatigue set in, but the numbers were such that Resnak didn't have one. Nor did he need one, as it happened - though the Captain was not untrained in the discipline of fighting in formation, it was as a duelist, with plentiful freedom of movement and position, that he really shone. These opponents were quick, and strong, and with longer reach than he had, but that was all familiar territory to him. Resnak had spent a lot of time in the past few years in the training yard, fighting the Baron himself, because he was the only man in Verthill who could hold his own against him. The Baron had strength and reach as well, and plenty of speed, but he was also versed in a very different sort of fighting from these raiders. The orcs were furious, and relentless, and their vigor only increased with every time they swung and missed a blow. Resnak ducked and dodged and danced and made them chase after him, time and time again, until in their excitement they ran straight into the point of his blade. The Baron was much more controlled, patient, and deliberate... or so Resnak had thought until he killed his second orc of that fight, darting in and putting a sword through his neck and into his lungs. Then the tip of a much larger sword exploded outwards from the dying orc's forehead, narrowly missing Resnak's own, and the Baron could be seen briefly through the hole when it was pulled out, seen pressing onwards towards the enemy assault.

"My lord!" He shouted, working his own sword free with both hands. "My lord, we're falling back!" He counted ten new human bodies on the field, at a glance. The townspeople's collective nerve had given at the first sign of attack, and they'd already run into the castle. Sigius was at the doors as well, making sure they didn't try to close them before the soldiers were in. The squads, all now substantially smaller than they'd started, were trying their best at a fighting retreat. They hadn't practiced the maneuver, however, and those in the front were very careful not to step too far back and lose their balance while fending off the orcs, so it was very slow going. "My lord!" Resnak shouted again, but the Baron ignored him. He was well ahead of the retreating front lines, now, and a circle closed in around him, its members now wary about stepping into range of his swing. One would-be-hero darted in and brought his axe down from behind, aiming at the gap between neck and shoulder. Luck was not with him, there, for just then the Baron shifted, and the axe-blade instead struck plate, and rebounded. His body landed on the ground in three separate pieces after the Baron's retaliation, and the circle closed up again as his soldiers made it back to the castle stairs.

 

[Chlegyr]

Third Root had fully prepared for casualties, and though the warriors had mostly followed their instructions, they failed spectacularly in one crucial aspect. Heaving himself slowly over the front wall, helped by the veterans from his own village, he jangled and creaked like an ancient trinket peddler. Climbing the last knot of the coarse rope and hopping down from the ledge, he glared disapprovingly at the warriors standing over a decapitated guard, whose head could be found resting in a muddy puddle at the base of the gate house.

He shook his head, but at least the remaining warriors had made short work of the task of looting the bodies of the fallen soldiers, tossing aside arrows and weapons damaged beyond repair or otherwise unsuitable for Orcish use. Spears and Halberds especially were favored by the heavier hunters, who simply replaced their flint and bone tipped sticks in favor of real weapons. Root took stock of the warriors who remained in the main courtyard, the enemy soldiers and a few of the civilians retreating into the keep that even now fought to keep a few bloodthirsty and overzealous orcs from charging into the hold and slaughtering all inside.

Around sixty warriors, hunters, and even a few shaman had followed their instructions and assembled back towards the gate, looking up at the strange old sage and his group of sealskin fighters with some cautious reproach. Root spoke out to the largest amongst them, decorated in a very loose fitting gambeson of mail, likely ripped cold from the empty forges they'd raided.

"Where are the others?" His voice rasped, age and foreignness leaving a noticeable twang on his words. His aura of annoyance seemed to seep into the air, his speech ringing with a cold arctic wind, sapping heat from the surroundings and biting into the bones of those assembled around them.

"We lost more than expected to the guards on the walls. Three seemed to be knights, and claimed a score of our brothers." A stout warrior with a helm fashioned in the likeness of a boar responded somewhat dejectedly, as if disappointed that the humans had managed to inflict such casualties. The hunters busied themselves scavenging from the bodies of guard and orc alike, plucking arrows from the dirt and ripping staring a few orcish bodies lying where they'd fallen, but still not enough to account for the numbers of those missing.

"Vardek and others from his tribe tried to capture the great armored human on his little mammoth as a prize to the Warchief." Came the reply from a different warrior, this one with the visage of a stag. In the distance, he could see a few more orcs herd the captive townsmen towards what appeared to be a well. By the looks of it they weren't too bruised or beaten up, scared if nothing else. Children mewled pathetically as they held onto their mothers, the men looking the worst of all, likely having put up a fight as the orcs burst into their homes.

The orcs at the castle were likely smashing their heads against the defenders even now, unlikely to triumph against a man with steel and his back to a literal wall. Men were stubborn beasts like that, susceptible to put their lives at risk to defend honor or their conceived notions of loyalty. Faced with a choice between a lord's honor and the lives of his family, he hoped most of the guards standing scared and wetting themselves in the stony hovel on that hill would choose the latter.

Barking at his warriors to arrange the humans at the fountain into some kind of order, and to prepare them for a night in the open, he turned to face the stone spire itself. Root would not attempt to parlay with the men of the fort until the morning, when they were likely to be fatigued and worried sick about whatever family was left behind in the village.

Of the hulking beast of a Baron, who seemed to have more hide than brain stuffing his helmet, Root had a simple plan for ridding the brute of at least his honor.

"Where is Backbreaker?"

 

[Tirin]

Location: Verthill

The attack on the town had been something of a bore to Backbreaker, to say the least. He wasn't to be a part of those who scaled the walls, and was indeed quite a ways back from the rest of the army - he was too loud and slow compared to the hunters, not to mention would have a much more difficult time with the climbing (if the ropes could even hold him!). The shouts, screams, and clashes echoed into the woods around Verthill as Backbreaker walked towards the gates at at almost leisurely pace, far from concerned about the occasional plinking potshot any remaining defenders would have been able to fire. He had intended to enter through the main gate if it had been opened, and was very much considering breaking through it himself just to get to the bloodshed more quickly. Knowing that that would be disagreeable to Third Root, however, he instead cleared his throat and shouted - to whichever of his fellow warriors may have been able to hear him - "Open the gates! I won't wait much longer for my share of the glory!"

TAG: Stoney

 

[Chlegyr]

The tactless bellowing of the warrior in question; accompanied by the now signature cacophony of entire army's worth of shifting plate from behind him left little doubt in either the Shaman's or any Orc not currently involved in a mindless slaughter in the keep who had finally arrived at the gates of Verthil.

"Open the gates! I won't wait much longer for my share of the glory!"

The slightly muffled demand was in no way made less grave by the sight of the warrior's greaves slightly visible from underneath the crack of the gate, reflecting some of the light from the now discarded torches of the watch that now lay dead at their posts or huddled frightened up in the keep beyond. Some of the warriors exchanged a knowing glance and chuckled, not laughing out loud for fear of provoking the lumbering giant into a rage should he find it within himself to simply smash down the gate and beat the offenders into the ground. The hunters evidently paid little mind and continued their scavenging operations inside the closest of the local houses that now lay by some stroke of fortune unoccupied. They squirreled to and fro, collecting all manner of foodstuffs, tools and other useless brick-a-brac detritus from the squalid huts, depositing them on a pile next to the weapons ready to be collected later.

The sound of hard thumping on the gate could be heard, and the rattle of chains accompanied each deep knock. It was doubtful he'd wait to see if anyone replied.

"Go and see if you can figure out how to raise the gate, before the Mastodon himself comes charging through it kills us all."

A few of the warriors nodded, and sauntered leisurely over to the large structures containing what must have been the chain and pulley. With any luck they'd be able to work out how the mechanism worked and raise it before Backbreaker started tearing holes through it. A workable defensive structure was integral to the plan Skysplitter had devised, and he wasn't about to let some steel clad buffoon ruin that plan.

As he stood observing the warriors mutter angrily to each other about the complexity of human engineering, two of his tribe's own warriors appeared above the parapet of the walls, holding what looked to be a badly wounded knight in full armor.

Without a word being said, Root dashed up the stairs in a manner not quite befitting that of a creature his age. He found himself on the walls, shielded by a wooden tower and sharing the space with a few dead guards, two of his fighters, and a knight with an arrow sticking out of his chest, parting the steel plate as if it were little more than a leaf in a strong hail.

Crimson leaked steadily from the gap in the plate, and his head lolled to one side. Realizing what an opportunity a captive, live knight would be to the occupying orcs as a bargaining chip, Root set about removing his cloak and laying it down like a spread beside the knight. Instructing his orcs to remove his armor as well as they could (And any sharp objects should the man regain consciousness and attack him.)

Root was an experienced healer, being a Shaman and an elder as long as he had in his village. Hunters and warriors frequently came staggering back into camp with some manner of injury only his expertise could solve, but their bodies were somewhat more sturdy compared to these soft skinned humans. The manner of the herbs he had access to on his person and whether they would be poisonous to the injured knight raised interesting questions that he pondered whilst sawing through the wooden shaft of the arrow just above where it disappeared into his armor. Keeping the shaft as still as possible to prevent further internal damage, the serrated knife of bone cut slowly through the shaft, catching streaks of red as it rubbed against the shattered opening.

Stuffing an immensely bitter root which aided in numbing the pain and keeping his attention away from the brutality of battlefield surgert into the man's gaping maw, (Whose incredibly fibrous consistency prevented his tongue from being bitten clean through in the struggle.) Root began the process of pulling out the length of the arrow post "decapitation"

Had the warriors not been standing by to physically restrain the knight, it was likely his pained convulsions would have fatally injured him as the point of the arrow sunk deeper into his flesh. As it was, the fair haired man screamed something unintelligible, and attempted to wrest his hands and legs away from the Shaman that cut the straps of breastplate and carefully peeled his blood-soaked gambeson from his pallid flesh.

The procedure lasted an eternity for the poor knight as he writhed in agony on the hard, stone wall surrounded by his fallen comrades and held at the mercy of a band of rampaging orcs. With some help from the Spirits, (Both alcoholic and incorporeal), the wound had been stitched and the bleeding reduced to trickle, the bodkin removed from his chest.

Warriors and hunters crowded around the battlements, watching on out of a mixture of boredom and anger at being defeated by a knotted chain, which held the stubborn gate fully in place.

Grinning from ear to ear, Third Root showed off the bloodied arrow point to the downed knight, whose vision swam back and forth from consciousness. Having a perfect opportunity to practice his Eximian, (Which was admittedly rather poor) Root spoke to the man from his rather unfortunate position.

"Be... more-careful, little...man" He drawled, mispronouncing the words and butchering the natural pauses between words.

"You took...one of our... arrows, we... had to take-it ... back. Evenn, fixed the hole in your... sside..."

The joke fell flat.

The Orcs looked at the Shaman with interest as he muttered his broken Southern Tongue to the man they would have in any other situation tossed over the side of the wall after shaking him down for his weapons.

Back on the ground, the Orcs still stubborn and angry enough to continue trying to unpick the chains from the gears seemed to suffer some sort of simultaneous anger induced frenzy, and began tearing apart the machines itself and scattering the coil of chain onto the floor.

Lacking an alternative, they simply smashed apart the main mechanism, letting the knotted chain fall freely through the pulley on the ceiling and slam the gate shut again, to the immense anger of Backbreaker who began pounding furiously with his hammer on the wrought iron. Hurrying to avoid the wrath of the Mastodon's champion, the warriors relied on their brute strength to haul the chain back out into the courtyard requiring four or five on each side to do it. As the gate slowly rose, Backbreaker grew impatient, and simply grabbed the bottom of the gate and heaved upwards. The sudden drop in resistance caused the Orcs to fall flat on their backs, still gripping the chain with both hands.

Backbreaker was greeted to the sight of at least ten warriors in puddles of mud and blood, swearing viciously at each other and struggling to untangle themselves from a thick chain.

 

[Easy]

When Sir Holinus's vision cleared, it was to a close-up feature of the smiling face of the ugliest orc he'd ever seen, and that was saying a lot. This one must be... very old.

"Mmmph." The knight started his first sentence a bit prematurely, because his clarity of thought came and went in spurts along with his vision, and so did his memory. That bitter-tasting root in his mouth must be the cause of it. He spat it out, and almost regretted it a moment later. He was beginning to feel warm and numb inside, and the pain (and the memory of the pain) died down to something just above a minor annoyance. Maybe this orc wasn't so bad after a- no! The murderers had killed his friends and shot him. This must be witchcraft, orcish witchcraft. Well, he wouldn't fall for it. Their demons were no match for an anointed Knight! He reached for his dagger, and struggled while it took him longer than it generally would to realize that the orcs were still holding him down. It didn't occur to him, just yet, that his weapons and armor were missing, as well. The ancient orc face in front of him had started separating into two separate images, but the one was already a less pleasant sight than he would have liked, so he focused with some effort and brought them back together again in his view and spoke.

"What... do you... want?" He realized, after the fact, that he'd taken on the shaman's pattern of unusual pausing between terms. Maybe if he had some more of that root... no! Witchcraft! Eventually he'd sober up, and the orcs would realize that their tricks were no match for a righteous mind like his. He took better account of his physical and mental state, and realized that his extremities were going numb. "I can't feel my arms." He indicated his captors' hold on his shoulders and wrists with a nod. "Get off."

 

[Zapy97]

Character: Corsan VIII
Current location: His office.

Corsan sat at his desk taking a break reading the daily newspaper, the gramophone had a record of some of his favorite marches from his time in the army. Corsan pulls open a compartment on his desk and pulls out a fine cigar and his lighter. He then lights the cigar, takes a few puffs, gets comfy in his chair and and continues reading the newspaper.

Tags: Cigar rights activists.

 

[Tirin]

Having lifted the gate most of the way practically by himself, Backbreaker wasted no time thanking the warriors who had spent the time untangling the chains and attempting to help him into the town. To the Warchief's great irritation, however, very few of the town's soldiers were to be found anywhere but on the ground, dead or dying; most of the rest had either holed up in the castle or were on the way to do so, save one. The steel-clad giant stood his ground even while encircled by the Ashen Tusk's raiders, seemingly more concerned with killing them than surviving. It was he that Backbreaker decided to fight to prove his strength and dedication to the Mammoth, and the warrior unceremoniously brushed past those who lay between him and his target. It was only when he reached the front line of the circle that he released a thundering growl, hefting his mace as he did so. Despite the lack of words, his message was clear to both the other orcs and the Baron himself - this fight was to be between Backbreaker and the Baron, and them alone. To interfere would risk his ire, and that was quite a risk to take indeed.

 

[Easy]

It was the Baron's belief that any number of men, sufficiently inspired by their circumstances and especially with him at the head, could rally to achieve victory against almost any greater number of foes. He believed so because he had read accounts of such battles happening, and since he was not especially well-read on the whole, such accounts were almost the entirety of his understanding of military history. He had very much lost sight of the hundred times such a disparity in numbers had led to eradication of the smaller force for every one time it hadn't, and as such, he had fully expected that once he had killed enough orcs, his men would regroup behind him, and together they would fight their way to certain glory. The realization that this was not happening came upon him slowly, beginning around the time he killed his seventh orc, so he pushed it out of his mind. Nonetheless, his mood worsened, and was worsened even more when the orcs started keeping their distance from him. Deep down, the brightest part of him (his instinct), knew that eventually, he would tire, and that he couldn't kill all of them first. Not like this.

Uniquely among men, the Baron's spirits were actually greatly lifted by the arrival of the steel-clad orc. Certainly, the sight of any creature larger than himself, especially as much as half a hand taller, was unusual, but single combat against a champion was exactly the sort of thing he'd been missing. Momentarily, but for a significantly longer moment than would have been required for most people, he did some calculations. The other orcs were standing aside. Perhaps that oversized grunt the beast had made was a command in what these creatures thought of as their language. Conventionally, as he was aware, situations like these implied that the other force would surrender if he defeated their champion, and he intended to do exactly that. This orc was large, but that was all orcs were to him: all ferocity and experience, and no training, like wild boars. He was confident that this challenger would make a mistake, soon enough, and allow the Baron to strike him even once. Then, it would be over.

Warily, as he didn't fully trust the orcs at his back to not take a jab at it, he turned his bloodied greatsword downward... and stabbed it right between two cobblestones. The blade sunk near down to the hilt with an awful, metallic squeal, and the stones pushed apart and cracked for several feet outwards from its point of entry. He didn't want any orcs to take the greatsword while he wasn't using it, after all, so in the meantime it was best to put it where only he had the strength to pick it back up. He dropped the shield, next, and let it clatter to the ground. Nothing to be done about that - and besides, it was too heavy for them to really use anyway. Deliberately, menacingly, he unhooked the massive, gate-smashing hammer from his back, and hefted it readily as he approached. Avoid strike. Avoid strike. Avoid strike. Smash. He'd use the flat side, he decided, rather than the pointed one. We'll see how threatening that orc looks when his armor is concave.

 

[Chlegyr]

Root's smile vanished back beneath the waves of a grave scowl that seemed much more at home on the wrinkled contours that made up the orc's face. As amusing as it was watching the milk skinned warrior battle with his first hit of darkroot, there was certainly more to be done than to gawk as he struggled through his first communion with the Spirits. Or Spirit as the case may be. Sujr chuckled darkly into his ear, and as always around the mischievous water elemental; the temperature of the surroundings dropped considerably.

"We-want... your... world..."

The voice seemed not to match up with the shaman's, rather much so considering the orc had failed to open his mouth. The words sounded harsh yet somehow flowing all at once, chilling the extremities of the knight as if they were dipped in arctic water.

"...Human, we believe your kind call yourselves."

The Old Orc's face seemed to shimmer and contort, as if viewed through a veil of still water suddenly disturbed by the dripping of some distant droplet falling into the main body of water. A whispering, swarming multitude of voices poured into the knight's ears, none of which had any business coming from the mouth of any man or orc or any being with teeth and a tongue.

"We have a great deal to tell you..."

Root had his warriors escort the hallucinating man over to the captives, keeping a close eye on the man as Sujr and the Spirits began their malicious taunting.

 

[Chlegyr]

Location : Northern Galadon

Callonburgh Outskirts

To say that the motley assembly of middling class merchants, guard captains and lesser nobility, nervously shuffling and picking at whatever louse or speck of dirt had nestled into their day-clothes whilst they waited for the last member to arrive was an usual sight would normally be true. Had they not convened in exactly the same location for the last six or seven months previous every second
week almost "unnoticed" by the local watchmen they'd likely have revealed themselves to be involved in some kind of nefarious plot.

The bribes they'd needed to pay the soldiers had decreased significantly once they'd managed to get the Guard Captain and his lieutenants in on the act. Now there were two more "seats" at the creaking oaken "table". These were occupied by Konrad Estern, the hook nosed representative of rebellious or corrupt guards within the city. Turncoats they may be, but they represented the closest thing to true soldiers this "rebellion" could present, and it was of the utmost importance that enough defect to render any loyalist forces within the city ineffective.

The other seat reserved by "Louse", the masked and anonymous ambassador of the smugglers working with the Merchants to bring weapons into the city. With all the trouble in the South, and a bone-fide assassination of one of the more intimidating Vrykal attack dogs and their team of inquisitors, there was never a better time to operate. Using the fullest extent of trading networks both legal and otherwise, they'd managed to acquire some equipment laying around in military storehouses from around the region, pikes and halberds amongst other things fit for a mob of burghers to wield en masse.

Ten of them or so stuffed deep within the seedy confines of a rather squalid inn by the name of the "Horse and Bucket" were busy discussing the details of their nefarious plot. It was a hovel, two stories tall if one was being generous and counted the upper level of rotted thatch thrown haphazardly over walls wet enough to slake a horse's thirst and boards thin enough to be treacherous if tread upon too vigorously.

"- We have at least two thirds of the guard, and the entirety of the fund of the Merchant Guild at our disposal! All we need are those blasted contraptions from the Oberlanders! Surely the commoners would rally behind us once we strike down that demon and string his armour up on the walls like baubles at some peasant fair and from there they'd march, and- and-"

The enraged spluttering of the rather overweight and jovially red-in-the-face merchant Polkarios Nemeter was interrupted by the soft thump of an armoured gauntlet on the rotting timbers of the frame of the door, leading back up to the ground floor of the Inn.

The ursine features of the "Gerrid", the enormous foreign ironclad mercenary hired under the auspices of the Guild, filled the doorway and cut out the sickly yellow light of the lamp in the hallway beyond. Lacking the manners to impress the higher society assembled around the table, but possessing a temper to put a wild boar to shame and strength of arm sufficient to lift the Inn from its very foundations, he found himself unopposed as he trampled over to the center of the room. His monstrous boots seemed to resound like thunder with every step, as he unceremoniously dumped a large sack which he seemed to summon from thin air, clattering over the upturned wagon wheel covered with planks that served as a strategic hub for the co-ordination efforts.

Out of the sack came the heavily dented and very much bloodied armour of the resident Vrykal lord. The chestpiece was remarkable for the head sized hole rent through both sides of the enchanted steel as though the material was punctured by some giant ball propelled at unimaginable speed. Silence reigned throughout the dingy basement, as none could quite believe their own eyes.

Gerrid broke the silence with naught but uproarious laughter, as it seems the collective shock present on the faces of the rich and noble alike was too much for the grizzled warrior. Offering a terse explanation.

"Cannon from Oberland good weapon. Hide behind corner of street, fake assassin attack Demon Lord and run. Demon Lord chase man into alley, boom. Ball go through Demon, hit many people behind." The big man was reduced to tears, his jowls trembling with laughter as he described the bloody scene of collateral damage as the cannonball continued on it's path down the main street, wrecking stalls and dismembering bystanders in the square facing the alleyway.

His grin was met with yet more uncomprehending silence.

" Bad City guard fighting our City Guard. Big fight, good fight. We win by dinner, I think."

 

[Tirin]

Location: Verthill

Backbreaker was far from afraid at the show of strength on the part of Galiatus, having seen more than his fair share of similar things in his lifetime, both before and after his appointment as Warchief. The gigantic orc quickly settled into a more combat-ready stance; lower, more stable and balanced, and far better for a swift step in any direction. Nearly the instant that the Baron seemed anything resembling ready, the Warchief lashed out with his mace to strike a blow that would be deadly, were it not rather widely telegraphed. In the brief moment since they had met, Backbreaker had formed an opinion of his opponent - that being that he was entirely convinced that he would be victorious (why else, after all, accept the challenge instead of surrender?). That rather distressed the Warchief, who was adamantly of the belief that that involved his being thought of as a poor fighter. It was his intent to prove the Baron wrong by pretending to prove him right, and taking advantage at a most opportune time. It was just a shame that the nobleman was more valuable alive.

TAG: Easy

Location: Luscia, Samir's Quarters

Izlude did little aside from smile and nod for a short time after meeting with Samir and the scholars that had been contacted. What little he knew of magic was how to best fight against it; he would be interested in hearing more about the barrier (particularly weaknesses to exploit in it) once it had been successfully tested, and not a moment before. Within a few minutes his patience had faded, and Izlude quietly excused himself, Emperor Luscar expecting an important delivery and having requested his presence. He quickly left the room once he had revealed as much and headed to the palace; were the delivery on time, it would be there within the hour, and Izlude was quite sure he could find a better way to spend that time than listen to mages prattle on about magical theories.

TAG: Milamber

 

[Easy]

Location: Luscia, Capital of the Vasa Ascendancy

The Special Council chamber is a small, windowless room accessible through a small, windowless hallway, either side of which is accessible through a sturdy, locked wooden door to which only Emper Luscar possesses the key. This room, and no other, is where sealed records of the highest gravity are held, on matters for which keeping such records was not at all preferred, but was strictly, absolutely, and regrettably necessary. Three people conferenced in this room every seventh day at noon, with the meetings lasting anywhere from minutes to hours, depending on the matters at hand: The First and Second of Eight, Miranda Zasolez and Izlude Radgeist; and, of course, Emperor Luscar himself. They sat at the only round table in the entire palace; a gesture from the Emperor, who was fully confident in the pair's unwavering loyalty, and who tolerated and preferred that they speak with some candor in these matters. Even so, he sat at the table first every time, and always faced the (open) door, that all should still keep in mind to whom, exactly, the room still belonged.

If someone were to wish to enter that room, having somehow discovered the nature of what lay on the shelves behind those locked doors, then this time of this day of every week was arguably their best chance at it; for the doors, like the table, were only a gesture. There was nothing special about the doors, save that the thick and tight-fitting oak did well to obscure any sounds from within. There was nothing special about the locks, either, which prompted no special notice or commentary from the locksmiths when originally installed and which were only depended upon to prevent anyone from passing through them by sheer accident. But for six days of every week, and most of the seventh, an observant burglar may take very special notice of the hallway, and specifically of the identical symbols carved into all eight of its corners. If they were really observant, perhaps the dust mites suspended motionless in the air were even more worth noting. They'd be just as motionless themselves, frozen mid-step at the entry, if they were fool enough to try passing through anyway. The Rune Prison was another of Miranda's inventions, which she alone could dispell, and which was only committed to paper in Subsect. 6 of Section 3, "Dimensional Locking" of On the Manipulation of the Targeted Spatial Value, which could also be found on a shelf in that room. The spell would hold for up to ten days on its own without her to renew it. Were she to be at some point incapable of renewing it, presumably having been killed in action, the relevant text could be given a capable successor, as decided on by Izlude and the Emperor.

Of course, that only mattered for six days every week, and most of the seventh. Every week there was one day when, starting at noon, the spell was dismissed and a person might deign to walk right through that hallway. At those times, all he had to worry about was the fact that the single most powerful individual in the entire Ascendancy, as well as the two deadliest, were all in a room together at the other end of it.

This meeting began with Miranda's report on the mission in Galadon, on which there would be no records, ever, save directly in the memories of the three people in the room and the other two to have been directly involved. Lazarus, knowing better than to press for participation in this matter, had gone to tend to his own affairs in the capital, while Giland had declared his intention to wait outside 'if needed'. Without a doubt he was straining to overhear what he could, (not that it would be news to him, just now, in any case), but unless they started shouting, he'd be quite unsuccessful. Miranda had told the Emperor of their work on the burning man and his children, and of the burnings in Signpost, and the assassination of Aryos's company on the empty road there, and what they had learned from it, making a point to mention the unexpected human with them and to compliment Lararus's quick reaction to that unexpected appearance. She was now recounting the riots in Allin, where they had played the instigator on both sides.

"Hearing murmurs of dissatisfaction around me, for that Lord Aryos appeared to have failed to deliver their justice, I cried 'where's the demon' and threw the first stone," she intoned, "accidentally striking young Giland -whom they believed to be Aryos - on the helmet. Fortunately, he remained conscious and able, and I moved through the crowd to throw the second stone from elsewhere, that it would appear to have been thrown by another person and in support of the first. This must have been effective, for the third stone was not my doing. Over the course of it all, Giland feigned outrage, and I dare say he gave an impressive performance. There is no man so cynical that, having been there, he would not have believed that he was the Vrykal Lord Aryos himself, when he ordered the stone-thrower's arrest and beat viciously at the crowd.

"The people stood fast but did not attack their lord, at first, but they were bold enough to fight back against the guards who came to aid him, then against his Vrykal companion, played by Lazarus and, when so emboldened, to pull Giland from his horse and begin to strike at him. Soon after, I issued the recall. Our men were spatially repositioned to the edge of the crowd, safe but rather badly bruised, leaving their empty pieces of Vrykal armor behind. Thinking themselves to have killed Aryos and his companion, the mob turned instead to the remaining guards, and the guards just arriving to the scene, and then to the Vrykal patrols arriving alongside them.

"At this point I should mention that one of the Vrykal had arrived in time to see Giland dragged from his horse, and would later swear on his life that it was not Aryos, or even a real Vrykal. As he was quite distressed at the time, and the city was not in any state of mind to be inclined to listen, and as it was Aryos's misshapen armor and no human body that they paraded through the streets after, his testament was almost entirely disbelieved and disregarded. Nonetheless, it seems we don't understand them well enough to pass for one among them. Until we can figure out why, I don't recommend we attempt to impersonate them again.

"When they had dealt with the guardsmen, the mob went on to the merchant-stalls and store fronts, mostly looking for weapons but eventually emptying whatever wasn't locked or hidden away. Some merchants allowed them, or even pretended to help by giving things away, and were celebrated. Others resisted, and were beaten. Some Vrykal tried to restore order by appeal, but were attacked soon after the younger ones tried force of arms instead. One or two were smashed in there and then, with picks and stones and hammers, and the rest were overpowered and bound hand and foot for 'trial' later.

"Leadership at first fell to a local blacksmith, Lokir Smith, who ordered construction of an execution device: A guillotine of sorts, but taller, and with an anvil at the end of the rope where there would be a blade. A day later, Smith gave way to a doctor by the name of Ajax Oman, who had been treating the wounded free of charge, and so gained their support. He is said to be a well-read and educated man, and has had much to say about the need for reform, and the Vrykal's oppression of human freedom and dignity. He is an eloquent and charismatic speaker, and pleasing to the eye, and has thus far endeared himself greatly to the men, and especially the women, of the city. I mention this, of course, only because it pertains to his ability to control the people of Allin." Mostly true.

"As of yesterday, the city so far has been largely functional; apart from the initial looting, crime has been minimal and severely punished, even more so if the guilty are unlucky enough to be caught by the citizen 'volunteers'. The neighboring Vrykal Lords have ordered the roads blocked, and lay siege to the city. Allin grows little food itself, and Oman has started rationing bread, as well as 'borrowing' from the merchants and bankers to commission ships for fishing and trade. I expect he can keep this going for another two weeks, maybe three, before the city's larders and coffers are both dry. But right now, I believe his mind is elsewhere."

Here most people would have paused significantly, or leaned forward conspiratorially, or locked eyes meaningfully, or similar. Miranda did none of those things at all, but somehow managed to communicate that the situation was such that she could have, while moving from one sentence to the next in just the same way she had every other. Perhaps it was her tone. "Sailors reached the port of Allin yesterday from the north and, when even slightly pressed, brought news that a faction in Callonburgh, using some sort of advanced siege weapon from the East Oberland, had also overthrown the local Vrykal presence and seized control of their city. The word is that Oman would propose alliance with them, but hesitates on the terms and the means for it. Additionally, he can't be sure that this is any more than a rumor, or a loyalist trap. We can; I went there, and saw for myself. Messengers should be arriving here to tell of revolution in Allin and Callonburg within a day of each other, two or three days hence or sooner.

"When that happens... perhaps the Vasa Ascendancy could send some ships to Allin. Nothing too invasive, of course, just wheat and wine and barley for sale... on long-term loan, with interest. That would give me a reason to be there, which in turn would let me speak with Oman, one scholar to another. He may be just what his people, and ours, need." She shrugged. "Or maybe we'll have to kill him and try again with the next one.

"Either way, better to find out sooner than later."

TAG: Mayor Tirin


Location: Verthill

The fight was only just started, and already Backbreaker had made a huge mistake.Oh, it might not have been an accident; and he may have succeeded in making the Baron think it had been an accident, but it was still a mistake. Perhaps because he hadn't seen the way his brethren died; and probably because he, too, was unused to seeing another experienced fighter of that size; and almost certainly in part because he didn't fully appreciate what it was that thousands of hours in the training yard with an old knight for a master-at-arms did for a person, since orcs didn't have any of those things. Galiatus stepped back minimally from the orc's wild, obvious swing, then swiftly back in and thrust the head of the hammer into his chest when the mace had passed. Any of Backbreaker's comrades could have expected some broken ribs from that kind of blow; probably too many, but he himself was only bruised and knocked back a ways, albeit with a new dent in his breastplate.

Galiatus brandished the hammer and made as if to follow, and to strike him down while he was still off-balance, but in truth this was a feint, intended only to provoke a wild counter-swing. His eyes were on the orc's, reading them for hints at his next target, but his attention was on the arm that gripped the mace beside them. Backbreaker had started the fight fresh, while Galiatus had already killed more orcs than he could count without moving his lips. He intended to even the score.

TAG: Mayor Tirin, Stoney

 

[Tag_Ross]

Location: Caravan's Clearing, Tall-Trees, Forestwood


The first branch had just arrived in Caravan's Clearing. Hector had noticed a few other branches had already arrived, Caravan's Clearing was always crowded but as the day dragged on the streets would only grow busier. All ten branches of the silver caravan would soon regroup, over one hundred thousand men women and children would roam the camp for the next two weeks as the next years captains are chosen from the current captains and hopefuls selected by said captains.


Hector rode his horse alongside a fireoak stagecoach with silver trim. Edgar Silver, Lord of the Roads and High-commander of the Silver Caravan, made his exit as the coach stopped in front of a tent larger than any other in the camp. Hector dismounted and walked over to his grandfather as they made their way to the main area of the tent, "The Captains will want to speak with you as soon as they can, I've already sent for them."


"First search for the second branch, bring me Darren, you know how much trouble your brother can get into if he's not watched." A smile flashed upon the lips of the older averian for a second, though his kinship to Hector and Darren is widely known it would be best to treat his grandsons as he would any other members of the caravan.


A short time had passed when Hector returned with two men at his heels, "Captain Idwal is here to see you." Hector announced.


Edgar glanced at the two men and dropped the little smile he sported, "Captain Idwal, I had requested Darren join us, where might he be?"


The taller of the two men stepped forward and kneeled, "I'm sorry sir he won't be joining us, Darren was sent with a detachment to deliver a package that would have been too dangerous to defend with magic."


Choosing his words carefully Edgar finally spoke, "Is there a reason a possible candidate for captain was sent away at this time?"


The younger man kneeled forward and explained, "The shipment was already late when we received it and we have reason to believe Emperor Luscar of The Vasa Ascendancy was behind the purchase, with their recent annexation of The Wallin Duchy we figured it would be best not to offend our new neighbors."


Lord Edgar fell silent for a moment as he eyed the young man dressed in red and black. Finally Edgar broke the silence "Fintan, do you think your father would have agreed to possibly insult Emperor Ailill. Erskine will not like this one bit."


Fintan was quick to respond, his father being Einion Hayes, the Lord of Charred Wood, knows well not to anger their northern neighbors who hold favor with Lord Keith Brynmor and Prince Emyr Neirin, "Highgate may border The Burning-Timbers, but theirs isn't the army strong enough to threaten us, their anger means nothing without power."


Edgar, no longer treating the matter as grandfather but as a Lord, thought it over for a while, "This problem needs to be dealt with correctly. We cannot deal with this alone, Hector, send word to Lords Brynmor and Hayes and King Cadwalader."


"Yes grandfather." Hector replied fetching the required items for a formal letter, a bottle of fine ink, a quill, fine parchment, a silvery grey candle, and a seal stamp. Once the items were set on the table Hector began writing the letters.


"We are done for now captain, give Hector your list of hopefuls and wait for the summons." Idwal gave Hector a short list of names and left with Fintan behind him. "After you finish the letters and the rest of your standard duties you have the day to yourself."


Hector quickly drew up and sealed the letters using Lord Silver's personal wax seal, a scale and feather in a silvery grey wax, then sent them on their way. Hector then set on completing his other duties; greeting each captain, granting summons to Lord Edgar's chambers, standing in attendance during these meetings, locating and approving hopefuls, all of which were uneventful.


There was only one thing on Hector's mind after completing all his duties for the day. Finally finding Idwal in the gambling house, betting on one of his deputies who was fighting a pack of wolves barehanded. After the match, in which Idwal's deputy won by throwing all the wolves into a cage, Hector pulled Idwal aside "How long until Darren returns?"


After counting his winnings Idwal hands Hector an unsealed letter, "The last we heard from him they had made their way to the Green River, that was three days ago, at this rate," Idwal was never a learned man, counting the time it would take for Darren to reach Luscia and return to Caravan's Clearing took a little over a minute for the large captain, "They should be back in two weeks to receive their assignments, if nothing troubles them."

 

[Tirin]

Location: Luscia

By the time Miranda's report began, Luscar had been drumming his armored fingers against the table for nigh on ten minutes, serving only to add further to the four circular indentations marking where he'd done the same for the past two years. As Miranda broke more and more of the good news, the tapping quieted a little bit, to the point that the young Emperor had stopped it altogether by the time she had finished, in lieu of quietly considering the course of action to take next - or, more accurately, considering who to send with Miranda and who, if anyone, to keep in reserve for the mission he knew had to be undertaken.

Izlude, then, took the time to describe what events had transpired while the First was in Galadon, giving Luscar the time to weigh his options. "The Emperor's negotiations with Margrave Wallin went quite well, and soldiers, mages, and bureaucrats have all been dispatched to assist in the administrative and military transitions, as well as to help strengthen the western border. Samir is attempting to assemble a second elite group that will work in larger numbers, and doing research into projecting large fields of protective magic aside. However, the artifact we've ordered from the Silver Caravan hasn't yet come in, and Luscar's quite convinced that they've reneged on their deal or some kind of trouble's come up. I'm not so sure, and he's willing to wait a few more days before prying into it any further and risking a diplomatic incident." He said, stressing the potential upset of making accusations. Izlude found that there was always wisdom in acting patiently, at least when it came to matters of state such as these; unfortunately, Luscar called the shots, and often disagreed.

The Emperor raised his hand slightly to indicate what he intended to suggest, giving Izlude ample time to finish having his say before glancing to his first. "Miranda, you'll go to supply the resistance in Allin and Callonburg. Encourage the two cities to ally if possible; bring Lazarus with you for security, and Giland to try and keep our apparent involvement to a minimum. Once supply lines are established, contact me, and if the situation's stable enough for Giland to leave - and our delivery hasn't arrived - send him here. He won't be any use in emulating the Vrykal if we can't study them more closely; capturing a powerful specimen will be your secondary objective, and hopefully you'll be able to transport it here for further examination. If not, any extra information you can obtain while on-site will still be useful and welcome."

"Izlude, for now you'll be staying in the capital and, if necessary, assisting Samir with the training of the new group... which we really need a decent name for, so both of you think up some suggestions for the next meeting. That aside, if the artifact doesn't come in as expected, you and Giland are going to go to Forestwood and investigate. It'll be extra experience for him, and you don't need to worry much about said artifact's properties if it's in hostile hands. I'd suggest starting with the Silver Caravan, but I'll leave it up to you. Do either of you have any concerns, or anything else to say?"

Though Izlude's face fell a little - he was hardly excited at the prospect of going out to find the artifact himself, nor at hiding himself behind an illusion - he shook his head. Luscar was right in sending him out to uncover what had happened; the only potential alternative was Yochanan, who could very well react poorly to the artifact, and certainly couldn't be trusted to be discreet... or trusted at all, really. Rare though it was, for now the Second was Luscar's only sensible option, as opposed to one among many.

TAG: Easy

Location: Verthill

The thrust to Backbreaker's chest elicited a grunt from the orc, but - rather worryingly - seemed to stem more from irritation than any kind of pain. This worry was only compounded by how quickly the orc recovered from the blow; the counter that Galiatus had intended to provoke came not in the form of a swing of the mace, but the shoulder of the plated colossus violently impacting the baron's chest and throwing him backwards in turn, the weapon in Backbreaker's hands more than ready to bear the brunt of a strike. The brute continued his charge toward his foe without a moment's pause, swinging his mace upwards to attempt to land a more solid blow in the baron's side. While the opportunity was there to avoid likely having his bones broken, it seemed to be between attempting to contest the orc's strength with a block or hurry backward and put himself further off balance.

It seemed that in utilizing so sharp, but (relatively) weak a blow, Galiatus had succeeded only in angering an opponent who had no shortage of experience in bracing himself for better. What time the baron had spent fighting men smaller and less resilient than he, the Warchief had used in hunting, subduing, and killing beasts far greater in size and strength, both before and after he had gotten armor - by this point, it was second nature for him to roll with the metaphorical punches.

TAG: Easy

 

[Easy]

Location: Luscia

Miranda nodded, and said: "Giland is well-chosen to accompany Sir Izlude, sire, and acquits himself well with steel. He would have much to learn from his senior, however; I propose bringing Yochanan to Galadon bound, as your representative, to my orders. This mission would, officially, be presented as trade negotiations, and the Vrykal could not openly interfere without risking war. Lazarus and I will serve as diplomats, Yochanan our bodyguard. In the meantime, Giland could learn much in those days from Sir Izlude, and be better-prepared, should it become necessary, to assist with the matter of the artifact."

TAG: Mayor Tirin


Location: Verthill

Galiatus had been wrong to approach Backbreaker as though he were merely an inferior soldier, and paid for it by taking a shoulder-check nearly as hard as his own hammer-strike had been. But Backbreaker, too, was wrong to charge and swing at the him as though he were merely another wild beast, for the Baron was not only large but also the most highly-trained soldier that the orc had as yet encountered. He dodged to the left with the same speed that had caused his compatriots to die with looks of surprise forever imprinted on their faces, and swung the hammer full-force into the orc's side as he went by. But that it was a back-handed swing, made while in opposing motion and thus without the full backing of the body behind it, the hammer-head might have severed the arm and then buried itself even halfway through the orc's rib-cage before stopping. As it was, there was a deafening crash and a scream of metal, accompanied (if one listened closely) by a snapping of bones, and the mace clattered to the cobblestone ground from a now-useless arm. Galiatus, ever the show-off, tossed his hammer aside smugly as well. Whatever else he was, the Baron was a man of honor.

"One request, orc, before you die," he jeered. "Tell me the name of the knight you slew for that armor, so I may lay it beside his bones when we're done here."

 

[Tirin]

Location: Luscia

Izlude bristled at the mere mention of the abomination that now held his brother's form, setting a hand on his blade despite knowing it was more than likely in some dark corner of the throne room, or - with luck - on another floor of the palace altogether. "I have nothing more to say. I'll leave the two of you to speak with it; I'll inform Giland that he'll be under my command if the delivery doesn't make it here." He said quickly, standing and leaving the room in the hopes that he wouldn't have to see Yochanan if he was swift enough in doing so.

Luscar nodded his head as Izlude left, though raised an eyebrow towards Miranda at her asking to take Yochanan as security. "You know the risks involved with taking him, of course. Very well, then. Make sure to be as specific as possible with your orders, and feed him if at all possible, it's been quite some time. Report as often as necessary, avoid any aggressive action, and support the rebellion any way you can without drawing additional attention." He commanded, going over it as much for his own benefit as for the experienced mage's. Without a moment's hesitation he telepathically called Yochanan to the room.

The moment that Izlude left the Special Council chamber he shut the door behind him, allowing Giland no more than a snatch at a word or two, and nothing particularly exciting or important at that. "You're doing nothing for the next two days. You and I are the go-to if an important delivery doesn't show up. Any questions, follow me." He stated tersely, his desire to hurry away from the chamber apparent as he left at a hasty pace. Just why he seemed in such a rush became evident as the Second was quite suddenly cut in front of by Yochanan, who gave him an immense, heartless smile.

The creature put his hand on his chest and bowed low before Izlude and Giland in greeting, the smile not a centimetre out of place as he rose. "Good afternoon, second Giland! Good afternoon, bro-" That was as far as he got, the latter half of the word met with a sudden flash of light, transforming it into a wordless gurgle as the two halves of Yochanan fell apart, an inky substance staining the ground and Izlude's sword in place of blood as his organs and flesh splayed across the floor. "Son of a bitch." Izlude growled, flicking said substance from his blade onto the floor and walking off all the more quickly.

Were Giland to stick around, he would be subjected to the rather disturbing sight of the blood and viscera coalescing, followed by the two halves of the demon sealing and the monster getting to his feet - albeit with a deep vertical gash extending from his lower midsection to the top of his forehead which was visibly mending itself. "My, he's quite testy today," Yochanan said with a sinister chuckle, "Why do you think that could be?" He asked, affixing Giland with a heartless stare before he opened the Special Council chamber's door and slipped inside. Despite knowing that Yochanan wouldn't - or rather, couldn't - harm him, it was still quite a relief not to have him in sight.

"Excellent, you're here. Yochanan, you will be joining Miranda and Lazarus in a mission to Galadon, and act as security. During that time, you are to obey both of their orders, with Miranda's taking primacy - and, obviously, you are not to kill, harm, or otherwise antagonize people unless ordered. If you're lucky, Miranda may find food for you, though I can't imagine she will reward any attempts to disobey her." Luscar stated authoritatively, quite able to guess what had happened outside and so ignoring the rapidly-disappearing cut. "Is there anything else you would like to say or ask, Miranda, or are we done here?"

TAG: Easy

Location: Verthill

The breaking of bones in his right arm managed to pull a rather pained growl from Backbreaker, who had a moment before been quite confident in his victory. He stumbled quite a ways to the left before turning to look at the Baron. Where he had expected the possibility of death, he was met instead by the man foolishly tossing down his weapon, evidently unaware that Backbreaker was quite a skilled fighter while unarmed, broken bones or no. The orc turned slightly to one side to put his useless right arm behind him, raising his left as he translated Galiatus' taunt as best he could (which was not very) and preparing a response. "Take-my... armor from man? You-are too small!" He declared with a rather bloodthirsty laugh, taking two sharp steps toward his opponent and making a quick jab at the man's head. Having learned from his previous mistake, the orc gave himself far better defensive options by keeping himself at the distance his reach afforded him - and, further, was prepared to retaliate with a solid swing of his right arm, painful though it would be to do so.

TAG: Easy

 

[Easy]

Location: Luscia

Miranda's tone was noticeably cooler and more formal after Yochanan entered the room, as compared to before. This was partly in accordance with expected behaviors before the Emperor in other company, and partly because she, too, had particular distaste for the sight of Yochanan. Years ago, being an accomplished magus and fellow student of the arcane, Vizya Radgeist had been an esteemed colleague of hers, and one she had personally been rather fond of. This twisted monster's mannerisms expressed in Vizya's body were... off-putting.

"Thank you, your Majesty. That will be all." She rose. "Yochanan, our mission begins now. You will never, henceforth, communicate the details of this mission to anyone except myself and the Emperor. You will not draw attention to any of our party, yourself included, except when absolutely necessary to protect us from harm. In addition to maintaining a low profile, this mission will require negotiations, on my part, with a number of interested parties. You will not deliberately interfere with the mission or impede our success in any way. Finally, hostiles may include Vrykal or human Galadonian mages. You will not attempt to contact, cooperate, or appear to cooperate with them in any way. They may have the power to release you, convert you... or to end you for good. You will violently resist any attempts at capture or spell-casting by them to the full extent of your ability. Go do whatever it is you usually do, now, but be outside my chambers at sunrise."

She bowed to the Emperor. "I will have a commission drawn up for three light-ships, to depart by morning if possible. If your Majesty is done here, I will reactivate the Rune Prison before going."


Giland did, indeed, have some questions for Izlude, and not quite the wisdom to refrain from asking the less pertinent of them at just this time, as he hurried to keep up with the arms-master. "What's the delivery?" he asked, "and where? Galadon? What are we doing there next? Should I prepare myself in the training-yard, tomorrow, or the library?"

TAG: Mayor Tirin


Location: Verthill

"Hah! As if-" Galiatus's retort was cut off by the direct blow to the temple as, to his surprise, the orc's fist turned out to be not only longer-reaching, but also faster than his own. He reeled back, disoriented, and just barely threw up both arms in time to block the next swing. An opening appeared when the orc unsuccessfully tried to use his broken arm for a swing, - not because of the pain of it all, even, but rather because the rippling muscles, contracting, nonetheless could not serve to move his forearm without the support of the upper, - and the Baron himself struck a vicious left across the cheek.

Unfortunately for the Baron, Backbreaker could take a hit far better than he, and his strike only served to encourage the creature while also moving himself to within his grasp. A powerful hand wrapped around his throat and lifted him into the air, struggling, while he flailed uselessly at a face just out of arm's reach. Seconds went past. Desperately, he kicked at the broken arm, achieving only a vicious growl and for the fingers to tighten. He tried with both hands to pry them apart, but to no avail, as he felt the strength slipping from his body and spots darkened his vision. With effort, he managed to choke out just one additional word:

"Yield."

TAG: Mayor Tirin, Stoney