[b][i]Joint-Kingdom of Belmorn[/i][/b] [hider=Nation Status] [b]Current Leader/Government:[/b] King Marhorn Dryadson I (Elven) [b]Settlements Owned:[/b] 1 [b]Provinces Owned:[/b] 2 [b]Population:[/b] 61,400 humans/44,000 Elves/11,000 Half-Elves [b]Population Happiness:[/b] 25% [b]Imports:[/b] Cattle (Erimir), Iron (Elslen) [b]Exports:[/b] Lumber (Erimir) [b]Wealth:[/b] Poor [b]Alliances:[/b] [b]Trade Pacts:[/b]Erimir [b]Cease Fires:[/b] [/hider] Army Status Cards [hider=The Sorrowsong Host] [b][i]The Sorrowsong Host [/i][/b] [b]Current General:[/b] King Dryadson I & The Council of the Nine [b]Location:[/b] Hadelmere [b]Morale:[/b] 100% [b]Strength/Unit Breakdown:[/b] [indent] - /// -/<5,000>/ - /<5,000>/ - /<1,000>/< Superior archers, well trained, will not break > - /<5,000>/[/indent] [b]Current Action:[/b] Waiting [/hider] [hider= Maraver’s Trenchguard] [b][i]Maraver’s Trenchguard[/i][/b] [b]Current General:[/b] General Maraver, of Surgo House Stoneheart [b]Location:[/b] Outside of Fengarde (West) [b]Morale:[/b] 100% [b]Strength/Unit Breakdown:[/b] [indent] - /// -/<300>/ - /<100>/ [/indent] [b]Current Action:[/b] Manning Maraver’s Trench, ten miles west of Fengarde. [/hider] [center][u][b]King Dryadson I, Son of Meria of House Talia, Lord of Belmorn[/b][/u][/center] [center][i]Hadelmere Palace[/i][/center] “The Lizads have grown in strength,” said King Dryadson bitterly. “Yes your grace. All Jouria is emptied,” replied Count Ferawl. “They would leave themselves so vulnerable?” butted in Countess Anya. “They mean to destroy us,” said Dryadson with a heavy sigh. “They know that Elfkind is weak, we are mere shadows of our former glory.” “Since when did King Marhorn Dryadson I, son of Meria Dryadson of House Talia and Lord of Belmorn, care for glory?” asked Anya. Her face was placid; her words were not. Dryadson’s burning eyes narrowed, and he glared at her for several seconds. “The moment the ways of our peoples faltered, casting darkness all around us. I urge all council members with an aversion to saving this land, to leave now, and never to return.” To this, none of the nine Elven Counts and Countesses stirred. They looked on passively at their King, but their concern for him was evident in their eyes. He paid them no heed. “Twenty Stone Throwers, you say Countness Anya?” asked Dryadson, leaving the drama far behind him. “Yes your grace,” she said with a nod, “and with the rubble of Fengarde to arm them with, they will be a deadly force.” “Agreed, your grace. Our archers will not stand long under a rain of flame and rock,” said Countness Mayine. “We will have to rely on skirmishing formations to minimise our casualties, but this will diminish the advantage of having so many longbows firing at once.” King Dryadson I nodded. His right eye twitched slightly. “How easy would it be for Belmorn’s best to slip in behind the Lizards, and put to rest their Stone Throwers, Countness Anya?” “Easier than draining a bottle of Hadelmere’s finest wine, your grace,” said the Countess with a weak smile. “Good. Take the Halflings with you, if they are up for the challenge. I will not risk them on the killing fields. This is Belmorn’s battle, this is our war. Enough of their kind have died at my behest,” came Dryadson’s sullen reply. “As you will, your grace. I will brief Marshal Tommen Taleteller, and return with his reply,” said Anya, bowing and moving with customary Elven grace towards the large oaken doors of the War Room. “Wait,” shouted Dryadson, momentarily unnerved for reasons not apparent, “take this.” He held out his palm; a plain talisman of dark metal hung from his hand. Anya bowed her head slightly, and took it from him. She gave it a once over and frowned. It was a perfect circle, embossed with the sigil of a crescent moon. It was the emblem of the Royal Elven House Talia. The Council members all gasped at the realisation. “Excuse me your grace, but I do not understand,” said Anya, her words trembling with confusion. “This is for the blood of your line.” “My line has ended, Anya, as you are well aware. I doubt I will father another heir too – I am far beyond my fertile years,” said Dryadson smiling. “Give it to the Halfling Marshal. Tell him that whatever becomes of our peoples, we will not forget the courage of his country. Tell him… that if we are victorious, lands will be his.” “Forgive me your grace, but though I do not doubt their courage, they haven’t exactly provided us with an army worthy of such praise,” interrupted Count Ferawl. Dyadson shot him an off-hand glance. “You was not there, at the Battle of Witch Green Pass, my Count. If you were, you would know that I am alive today because of their courage.” Count Ferawl bowed his head for several seconds. “Forgive my ignorance, your grace.” The oaken doors of the War Room suddenly burst open. The half dozen Elven Royal Guard stationed around the pillared room leapt into action. In a flash of ancient steel armour and ancestral blades they whirled towards the intruders. One was a man, clad in chain mail and a sword drawn in defence, and the other was too a man, but dressed in foul smelling rags caked in blood. “State your business, human,” growled the foremost of the Royal Guard. “How did you get in here?” “Get back, you fucking pointy eared bastard, this is the human heir of Belmorn you’re waving that curved chicken knife at,” roared the mailed man. King Dryadson I looked hard at the ragged man, who had said nothing. The man returned the look, and smiled as if the two had a fond history. “Lord Teor,” sneered Dryadson. “Come to piss on your father one last time, I trust?” The Elf King’s words startled the council members, all of whom were finding it increasingly difficult not to point out his deteriorating demeanour. Teor bowed his head. “Hail, King Marhon Dryadson I, Son of Meria of House Talia, Lord of Belmorn.” “Answer the question, knave, or I’ll have you gutted. I have ill time for ill guests,” hissed the Elf King. He started marching over to the two humans; a hidden hand gripping his obsidian short sword beneath his fine silken robes. “Forgive me your grace, but you lack the warmth of former days,” said Teor, still smiling despite his peril. “You have a conscience of stone, to come back here. Do you have any idea what your leaving did to your father? What it has done to your peoples?” roared Dryadson, pulling his sword free. Anya started edging forwards, unsure of how to act. The rest of the council stood motionless. Teor nodded. “Much has been put upon me, for my absence. It pains me, that even in the enlightened halls of the Elderborn, I find no respite.” “I will kill you, Teor, I will kill you for everything you have done to my Kingdom. I taught you my wisdom, I taught you how to think, how to fight and how to kill. More importantly however, I taught you how to live your short mortal life for the better of the world. You repaid me by running off, leaving your poor sis-“ Dryadson paused, caught in sad memory. “Alistine was not ready for the throne. Such a delicate, sweet human, who could have achieved much in her time. She’s dead Teor, she died filling a position moulded for you.” Teor’s smile vanished finally. “I understand your emotions, my King, but though you taught me much, you left me with more questions than answers. But I found them, all of the answers to the questions, and I return to you now with council an-“ Dryadson swung his sword for Teor’s neck. The monk of Tel’Gardas moved with unexpected speed however, and stepped back out of the blade’s reach. The Elf King stood stunned into inaction, unable to believe that a man had moved so fast. The Royal Guard moved in to subdue both the men. “Stop,” thundered Dryadson’s unusually harsh voice. “You have been studying things best left unstudied, Teor.” Teor’s smile returned. “That’s the very same advice you gave me when I first inquired, those years ago.” “And with good reason. Nothing good will come from it. Leave now, and never return, and I will let you live,” commanded Dryadson. His right eye twitching, and his sword shaking erratically. “Such anger, your grace?” asked Teor, looking genuinely worried. “I remember you once told me that rage was a wine best left unsavoured. I also remember Thendon, your son, taking to that lesson very keenly.” King Dryadson swung his blade at Teor. This time the monk was unprepared for the stroke, and the metal caught him from shoulder to shoulder. He fell back, blood pouring down his already soiled clothes. Rob stepped over him, sword ready, and dared the Elf King to try and finish the job. The Royal Guard made to attack. An arrow glided through the air and knocked Rob square in the chest, but was broken by his mail. He stumbled backwards. “Stop this madness!” Cried Anya, rushing forwards. Dryadson spun to face her. “Be quiet, Countess.” “Have you lost yourself, your grace? So much so that you murder our Kingdom’s only salvation on the very floor of your palace?” She said, holding a sword towards the Royal Guard, who stood confused and unsure of how to procede. “Salvation?” asked Dryadson. “Human kind has been our downfall. Letting them settle here was to bring the-“ “Your grace!” Yelled Count Ferawl. King Dryadson turned in time to see a shadow drop in front of him. It hissed like a snake of the far west, and lunged with a pointed spear. The Elf King’s reaction was slow – too slow to parry the strike, and the weapon’s head delved deep into his chest. He gasped, half in disbelief, half in pain, as his attacker released the spear and stood back. “Sar’Nassa, the Emperor of the Blackfang Empire, sends his regards,” the figure hissed. The Royal Guard, horrified, descended upon the assassin with rage, but he vanished as quickly as he appeared – as if into thin air. Anya rushed towards her King, and caught him before he hit the floor. His breath came in bloodied wheezes, and lines of red were soon flowing from his mouth. “Fetch a physician,” she screamed. Count Ferawl answered the call and hurried from the War Room. “What devilry was that?” said Rob, his face aghast. “Shadow transcendence,” said Teor flatly. All heads in the room, save Dryadson’s, slowly turned to him. “An art long buried, but still practiced by very few left alive to remember.” “This cannot be,” coughed Dryadson. “This evil was driven from the world thousands of years ago.” “It has returned, your grace,” said Teor. He approached the dying King, and was not stopped from doing so. Kneeling down, he examined the spear as it stuck from the Elf’s chest. “Poison, your grace. There is not-“ “Quiet,” seethed Dryadson. His face was a picture of unbearable pain. “My last wish, my dying wish. I have no heirs, I have no on left to rule in my stead. My dying wish…” “Be still your grace, help is coming,” whispered Anya soothingly, even as his blood pooled in her lap. “… burn the Lizards. Kill them all. Save my people. There is no room left for Elven niceties. War is upon you all, and you will all die unless you grow strong and cruel…” with that the the Elf King went limp. Anya screamed, and buried her head into him. Teor’s eyes were wide. He had not foreseen this; had never believed such things could happen. The scriptures were true. He turned and made for his exit, followed by a trembling Rob. The scores of Elven soldiers scouring the palace were indifferent to them, and before long, they were walking into the human refugee camp. War was coming, and it would be the last war to end all wars, if he did not prepare the world.